REZ's EDGE

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Introduction

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I had it all.

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I was only twelve, but everything was there for me. Food, clothing, shelter, friends, the love of my mother and father, and the protective wall that my father constructed around us.

 

But the walls of my soul were decimated the summer before I started seventh grade.

 

Five-thousand pounds of sheet metal and steel came barreling down upon my father and I, obliterating my wall, my protector.

 

So, now, how the heck do I rebuild some kind of wall? Because, Lord knows, I need one to protect my wounded heart and soul.

 

You know, nothing is more dangerous than a hurt and fearful animal.

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Forward: The Edge

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A bunch of natives live in the government subsidized housing projects behind our hometown A&W Drive-Inn. Mom, Dad, and I eyeball them as we guzzle down frosted glass mugs of fresh draft root-beer, recently delivered by our carhop. The project shacks are sided with tar shingles. Dirt drives are full of potholes. Grass is almost non-existent. Tidiness takes a back-seat to junk collections.

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Across the street begins row after row of mobile homes with a mix of Caucasian and Native American residents. Beyond that starts the small homes of white folks, with an occasional run down house, thrown in here and there, that houses a number of Indian family communes.

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Some better off Indian families have their own places, but they usually have grandparents, cousins, nephews, nieces, and a gaggle of kids in residence too. More often than not they are more like halfway homes, with all kinds of coming and goings of temporary residents, friends and relatives. It usually sounds like the circus is in town and all the performers and animals are staying at these shanties.

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To be fair, there are some Indian homes that are well kept and some Caucasians houses that are white-trashy, but that most-definitely is not the norm. Or maybe our eyes are just naturally drawn to the eyesores?

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Darrel 'The Barrel' Wamditanka and Jeffery Shakopee, 'The Piss Shaker', were a couple elementary school friends of mine. Darrell and Jeff called me Dakota 'Bone Head' Charleston, since I had bone-white blonde hair. I had white friends too, and we ran together on the playground, raising Cain indiscriminately. We saw the coloration difference in our skin, but we just didn't give a damn.

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In sixth-grade middle-school, cliques changed all that. Racial gravity pulled old friends further and further apart until we could hardly see each other. Names like Barrel, Piss Shaker and Bone Head no longer sounded friendly.

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Chapter 1 — The Encounter

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Car 16, the lime-green vehicle with 'Coors' and 'Randalville Burger Barn' on its side, is making a move. Our car is sparkle-blue, has number 34 tagged on its side with 'Dave's Auto Parts' spelled out in white lettering. Lime-green 16 slides left.

 

Dad and I jump to our feet. I spill half my cola down my arm.

 

“Look out behind you, idiot!” I scream into the deafening roar of twenty supercharged engines, running on decaying dinosaur remains.

 

The smell of burning fossil fuels infiltrates our nostrils.

 

Our vehicle swings deep to the inside of the turn.

 

Lime Green slams into our racer's rear left corner.

 

The tires of car 34 break loose from the dirt and slide broadside to the track.

 

Lime Green smacks our rig again in the driver-side door.

 

Blue 34's wheels catch a rut sending it tumbling like tossed dice and launching it airborne.

 

The crowd sucks in air.

 

The vehicle we'd been betting on bounces hard off the track, over the concrete retaining wall , and rips out the metal fence. It smashes hard onto the berm outside the racetrack. A brown dirt cloud shoots skyward and settles.

 

The yellow lights blink on. The rest of the racers snake dance to the inside to miss the debris from car 34. Half the cars take to the pits. More than likely, the other half will do so the next lap around.

 

Dad yells, “Damn! Hope he's alright. Guess we'll need to pick another car and driver. Who do you like, Dakota?”

 

I wipe my arm with the blanket we've been using as a seat cushion.

 

“What about 76? Same as the gas we pump back home.”

 

I point my now-half-empty cup at the car that just started braking into the pits.

 

I love going to races, especially with Dad. The popcorn, the soda pop, cotton candy, the exhaust fumes, and that wonderful noise of alcohol fueled motor mayhem. God bless America! All the cheering fans in the stands, and the pretty raceway girls too. The older boys gawk at them, but I'm more in love with the killer pieces of race machinery.

 

Usually my uncle Roy or my Dad's friend, Rob the Gobbler, or Dead-Eye Danno will come with us. Tonight it's just me and my old man, and I like it that way just fine.

 

# # #

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EARLIER TODAY we made the one hour drive to Randalville. Dad passed several hitch-hiking redskins on the way up from Rock Springs. Maybe one of the rez-runners gave them a ride. Not sure. I just know Dad wasn’t gonna offer. I wouldn't mind sharing a seat, but that's something pops is just not gonna do.

 

We also passed some Rez-Mobiles on our trip north. You know; paint eroding off, the vinyl exterior roof shredded or mostly missing, rust all over the fender wells and elsewhere, and the tires just shy of bald, if not already showing the steel-belts.

 

Dad commented, “Them hatchet-packers keep the used parts industry thrivin' and the tow trucks drivin'.”

 

Usually, though, they abandon the vehicle or recruit the help of one of their million or so cousins.

 

Dad doesn't mind selling them overpriced used tires at his 76 service station though.

 

 

 

Dad sometimes goes off about when the whole reservation just showed up in town one day. “Them injuns just marched on City Hall and took it over. Held it and the city hostage. Then they burned down the damn court house, chamber of commerce, and a shit-load of squad cars.”

 

I was in school that day, fifth grade elementary, in Mrs. Scotch's class. Over the intercom an announcement came from principal Pruitt.

 

“Attention teachers and students, due to the Indian uprising at City Hall, the school is now in official lockdown mode. All emergency situations shall be brought to my attention immediately, and dealt with from there. All classes shall be held as scheduled, but no one is allowed in or out of the elementary school until further notice. Thank you.”

 

We were all freaking and Mrs. Scotch had to get all bad ass on us to mellow us out. Then she turned on a transistor radio and we all huddled around to hear about the hubbub.

 

When us elementary students had to change classrooms, I could see they had office staff guarding the doors at the two ends of the hall.

 

When they finally released us from school, Mom drove the two blocks to school and picked me up. She said there was no way she was going to let me walk home with all those crazed Indians in town.

 

When Dad came home that night he told me and my mother the whole gory story.

 

 

 

A month after that incident we heard the FBI, National Guard, reservation police, and U.S. Marshals had 300 revolutionary Indians surrounded at the village of Wounded Knee on the Rez. To me it was a modern day cowboys and Indians saga.

 

The next day all the neighborhood kids and I, including 'Piss Shaker' and 'The Barrel', had a full on Indian and cowboy war in the empty lot across from our house. Jeffery 'Piss Shaker' and Darrel 'The Barrel' both wanted to be cowboys, so we let them. There were tons of skirmishes and casualties. It was a bloody horrific holocaust on both parts. A joyous romp was had by all.

 

Seventy-one days later the actual standoff at Wounded Knee ended, with only the death of a Cherokee from North Carolina, a Lakota Sioux AIM (American Indian Movement) member, and the serious wounding and paralyzation of a US Marshal, all due to traded gunfire.

 

Never seeing the carnage myself, it was all just a weird dream to me and my friends.

 

 

 

On the way up to the races today as we passed a thumbing buck, Dad said, “Lone Ranger and Tonto are riding on the range together, Tonto dismounts and puts his ear to the ground. Tonto says 'Buffalo come.', the Lone Ranger says 'Holy shit, Tonto! how do you know?' Tonto replies, 'Ear sticky.'”

 

Buckskins, zero; Daddy'O, one.

 

 

Driving into Randalville, before the races, Pops needed to stop at the 'A-1 Used Auto Parts' store. The T-Bird slowed down from thirty-five miles per hour and arced onto the side street with a sign reading, '25 MPH.'

 

Most of the buildings along the street are metal siding or cinder block, some rusted, some not. Some blocks painted, others bare gray. Nary a window to be seen.

 

Decelerating once again, our ride lumbers through a deep concrete gutter at the intersection. Dad hates dragging any part of his precious Ford Thunderbird.

 

On the side of the cross street, walking toward our intersection, are three dirty and disheveled Indian men. One huge one wears a tattered unbuttoned western-shirt and holey jeans and his long dark hair untethered.

 

The other two are wearing tee-shirts. One with a Budweiser emblem on gray heather that has seen a lifetime of wear. The other tee was white before it was covered in dirt, grease, food and armpit stains. Gray-Bud's hair is in a ponytail, but Stain-Savage has his locks tangling in the breeze.

 

I stare through the glass of my air-conditioned environment and watch beads of sweat on each of their brows. My glance is drawn to the big red-man, and our eyes lock.

 

His face contorts and his lips draw back, showing his teeth like a rabid German shepherd.

A quiver wells up inside me. A queasiness takes over my guts, just as the corner of the cinder block building breaks the hold on our eyeballs.

 

A block later the road ends at a tall chain link fence. The rolling gate is already slid open for customers to enter the dirt and gravel parking lot. We drive through and park next to the perimeter fence. Within the chain link fence sits row after row of salvaged vehicles looking like scavenged carcasses within this motor vehicle graveyard.

 

Opening the doors to the Thunderbird, I step out into the heat of the afternoon sun, and the smells of dry dirt, grease, and motor-oil pour over me. Dad and I stroll across the crunching-gravel drive and parking lot, up to two heavy metal-doors with wire-reinforced safety-glass windows.

 

Dad grabs the handle on the left and yanks it. The door rattles the bones in his arm, but doesn't budge.

 

A piece of paper behind the glass has scribbled on it 'This Side Unlocked'. I grab the other handle and hold the door for Dad.

 

Inside, two heads of customers prairie-dog up and pivot like owl heads. A greased-back dark head-of-hair nods. The other noggin swivels back to the parts clerk.

 

The large balding skull of a third customer remains concentrated on the clerk. Tangled white smoke rises from his white cancer stick. Rolls of fat are folded around his neck. The butt-smoke mingles with the smell of tires, grease, cleaners, and metal. Perched upon a metal four-legged stool with a round red-vinyl padded seat, his derriere dwarfs and eclipses the straining stool.

 

Spying the eye-candy of a metal chest with the letters C-O-C-A C-O-L-A on it, my mouth begins to sweat like a big fat bald head.

 

“Dad! can I have a soda-pop?”

 

“Sure.” He digs his right hand into his pants pocket and pulls out a shiny coin.

 

George Washington drops into my palm. “Thanks Dad!”

 

The flippin' lid won't stay up, so I slide the footstool over. I hinge the lid back and gaze wide-eyed at the ten-ounce glass bottles of soda.

 

Plopping my quarter in the slot, I grab the crimped-on metal bottle-cap and slide it into the exit spot and yank it upwards. The edges on the bottle-cap gouge into my fingers. The lever cranks over and frees the Fanta grape soda from its prison. I hear my quarter collide into other coins, and shake my hand, trying to erase the pain from fingertips.

 

Cold bottle in hand, I grab the ice-box top and pull. It crashes down, 'Tha-Whump!'

 

I turn and catch Dad's eyes and everyone else's locked onto me.

 

“Sorry,” I say, shrinking before the clerks and patrons.

 

“Not to worry son. Everyone does it,” says the parts man.

 

Dad gives me a grin.

 

I shove the bottle in the wall-mounted-bottle-opener, lever it down. Bubble gas escapes. The cap rips off and tumbles into the catch, clink-clanking against other decapitated bottle heads. The bottle mimics the fat headed customer. Sweat trickles down its slim neck. I gulp grape, and the bubbles bite at my tongue.

 

The huge rump of the 'wide-load' customer struggles from its perch. His bald head is sunburned and moisture runs down red flesh. The stool moans and creaks as his bulk is removed. Sweat marks seep through his tourist shorts. White Fat Albert's huge butt has streaked the stools red vinyl flesh with crack-sweat.

 

Dad points toward the stool as he looks at the bloke leaning against the counter.

 

“It's all yours,” Dad says.

 

The waiting customer replies, “No, go ahead. I'm just here with Joe.”

 

Dad begrudgingly takes the buttock-warmed and perspiration spackled stool and gets down to the business of ordering his parts.

 

The heavy metal door thuds shut behind us. Mr. Junk-In-The-Trunk has just left the building.

 

Tipping my bottle, I take a big chug of grape soda pop.

 

The metal door swings abruptly open and the door notification buzzer goes off again.

 

My skull spins on top of my neck and my eyes meet those they were locked with once before. I gasp.

 

Dark brown eyes dagger into my head.

 

Carbonated liquid is sucked into my lungs.

 

Heaving and coughing, I sputter grape syrup at the three large sweaty Indian men standing before me. I spray their feet and drench, what was, my clean white tee-shirt. Their looks are murderous.

 

My mind watches as the large Indian pulls his blade, carves off the top of my blonde hair, slits my throat, and red crimson blood tie-dyes my shirt along with the purple soda stains.

 

In reality, they just look at me with disgust.

 

I stand there coughing, trying to push the liquid from my lungs.

 

“Dakota! You okay,?”

 

I nod, but continue coughing trying to blow the grape Fanta out.

 

The largest of the three glowers at me and says under his breath, “White boy's named after our tribe. They steal everything.”

 

Either Dad and the other customers didn't hear the comment or they chose to ignore it.

 

Until just now, I had no idea that my name was linked with an Indian tribe. To me it was just associated with a couple of states, a larger territory before statehood, and a jazz singer my mother favored. To me the local tribe was just known as the Sioux.

 

Guess I'll need to ask my seventh grade history teacher about that when I get done crapping my pants and return to school; or corner one of the Indian kids and see what they know, after I've changed my underwear.

 

I'm an insect under a microscope. The offended redskins are constantly eyeballing me. I can feel the heat of their gazes focused on me like the sun through a magnifying glass. An ant being burnt by focused heat.

 

Why is it taking Dad so friggin' long? My mind is telling my feet to run, but my body is frozen there by the Coke machine, an immobile block of ice.

 

Joe and “lean-to guy” finish up at the counter. They suck in their guts, expanding their chests, as they walk towards the three Bucks meeting them half way.

 

As the two groups pass each other time comes to a crawl. The lights dim. A spotlight shines on the two parties and a low deep gravelly voice in my head drags out the dance call in the middle of this square.

 

'Ace of Diamonds, Jack of Spades,
Meet your enemy on the promenade'

 

'All join hands and circle to the south,
Get a little moonshine in your mouth'

 

'Roll your enemy, Gouge the villain,

Backstabbing and Kidney punches are mighty fillin'

 

'All bucked up and no place to go,

Brandish your weapons and get in the fro'

 

'Ambulances and big black hearses,
Get those doctors, get those nurses'

 

Real time kicks back in. A party of two Caucasians departs out the door and Tonto and company saunter up to the counter. Stain-Savage takes the stool.

 

I look over and see Dad still saddled up to the counter.

 

My head is spinning again, and I see my Father in a race across the prairie against ‘Greasy-Tee’ Stain-Savage. Pops is racing his pony to escape and leave with his scalp.

 

Dad eventually finishes up, and, since I'm no longer the ant under the wagon-burners' microscope, my feet thaw and I plod after my Father out the door. Our locks are still in place on our heads.

 

Halfway to the T-bird Dad exclaims, “Ah shit, sorry Dakota. I forgot to ask about that headlight I need.” He turns and starts heading back.

 

“Dad......, can I just wait in the car?”

 

“Sure,” he replies, digging into his right hand pants pocket. “Here you go.” He tosses me a huge mess of keys. “I'll be out shortly and then we'll roll to the track. Okay?”

 

“Okay, Dad.”

 

I fumble with the set of keys looking for the oval-headed Ford key. Crunching through the gravel and concentrating on the jumble of metal in my mitts, I finally find the right one, unlock the door and get into the Thunderbird oven.

 

The ninety Fahrenheit plus heat of the late afternoon sun already has our once cool cabin converted into a blazing wood stove. I juggle through the keys again and find the square Ford key, slide it into the ignition, start the engine, and crank the air conditioning to full blast.

 

I fiddle with the radio, rolling the knob up to where approximately 920 is on the AM dial and my favorite Randalville radio station, KKLS, is playing Manfred Mann's Earth Band's 'Blinded By the Light'. I dig that part where it goes, “Momma always told me not to look into the eyes of the sun, but momma that's where the fun is.”

 

After the song is done the DJ comes on, “This is KKLS, today's hits, with Jim Elliot. They call me Mr. Big Stuff around here. I don't know why.” He introduces the next song 'I'm Not In Love' by 10cc.

 

Out the corner of my eye, I catch movement. I turn to see the war party exiting through the front gate of the auto graveyard. They turn in between the chain link fence and the adjacent building. They're walking this way.

 

The Big-Chief has his eyes pinning me to the back of my seat. Paralysis overtakes me.

“Be quiet. Big boys don't cry. Big boys don't cry. Big boys don't cry,” sings the interlude on the radio.

 

All three tribesmen look at me with the lust of blood in their eyes.

 

They're coming. They're gonna climb the fence and rip me from my father’s vehicle. I know it!

 

Their heads all crook ninety degrees as they pass the front of the Thunderbird. They laugh hysterically and walk down to the corner of the building.

 

I think I just shit myself....again.

 

Only the slightest amount of relief comes over me. My belly is full of rotten milk.

 

In their brown hands they have a couple bottles of soda pop and a paper cup. Gray-Bud holds the cup and Stain-Savage pours soda into the container.

 

Big-Chief reaches behind his back and under his tattered button up shirt. He digs out a can of something and snaps the lid off. The lid is the same diameter as the can. Big-Chief shakes the container and sprays the aerosol into the cup of soda pop.

 

Gray-Bud takes a swig, passes the cup to Big-Chief, and in turn, they all take a drink.

 

What the hell are they drinking? Spray paint? That's gonna kill 'em.

 

They sit down in the shade of the metal building and in the dirt they continue passing the cup around.

 

Big-Chief looks my way again and I sink down into the seat trying to disappear.

 

A minute later, I slowly rise back up to spy on them again.

 

All of a sudden the door behind me opens and I thrash violently.

 

“What?” Dad laughs and puts his parts in the back seat.

 

“You scared me!”

 

“Sorry son,” he replies, still chuckling to himself and shutting the door. He circles around the back, cracks open the driver door and gets in. “What has you so jumpy, Dakota?”

 

“Those Indians and especially that big one,” I say pointing. “I think they're drinking spray paint!”

 

Dad looks questionably in their direction and mulls it over. “Nah. It's not paint. They're having some poor man alcohol, Lysol cocktails. Maybe it will disinfect the stinky Chugs.”

 

Juggling my head I say, “What? Why would they drink disinfectant?”

 

“Well...,” Dad thinks on it for a second, gathering his thoughts or deciding what to share with me or not. “Lysol is about eighty percent grain alcohol, or a hundred and sixty proof, and a ton cheaper than going to the liquor store. But it also has rubbing alcohol in it that could make you go blind or even kill ya, if you drink enough of that crap. So don't ever go experimenting with that junk. Okay Dakota?”

 

“Heck, Dad, I'd never do that. That stuff smells horrible. It's gotta be disgusting!”

 

Dad retorts, “Yeah, and I can think of better ways to go blind,” as he socks me softly in the arm and then rubs the hair on the top of my head. “Let's go to the races!”

 

“Cool!” I reply; keeping a skeptical eyeball on the Lysol war party as we back away from the fence and drive out of the dirt and gravel lot.

 

# # #

 

Car 34 is now attached to the wrecker truck and the pit guys are out gathering up any debris that has been knocked off our race car due to the impact.

 

The driver, luckily, got himself out of the wrecked car, climbed back over the retaining wall, and waved to the crowd as he walked off the track.

 

We all cheered him.

 

Running up to the bathroom, I wash the stickiness from my spilled soda pop off my arm and hands.

 

Dad is there waiting for me just outside the door. “Wanna get something to eat” he asks?

 

“Sure!” I say, beaming a grin back at my Father.

 

Dad buys us both monster hot dogs. I drown mine in ketchup, give it a yellow mustard racing stripe, and ruin the paint job by dropping piles of hot dog relish on top of it all. Dad also gets us another large fountain cola with lots of ice that rattles in the cup. We share the cola, and wash down our dogs with it. I work on keeping the cola in the cup this time.

 

Back in our seats, Red Car 76 is in a heated battle against Lime-Green Machine 16 and Purple People Eater Number 7. The purple car has taken the lead. Lime-Green is behind our new car through the far turn of the oval track. The rest of the pack battles it out a few car lengths behind the leaders.

 

After the wreck of car 34 the water trucks had wet the track to keep the dust down. Purple People Eater is now tossing mud on our Red 76, who in-turn is feeding mud pies to Lime-Green 16.

 

As the cars come ripping past the grandstand, the flagman makes the white flag madly dance a figure eight tango in the air. Last lap.

 

The race cars come hurtling past us at the far end of the bleachers. The engines make the bleachers and my whole body shake. I feel the blood and adrenaline coursing through my veins and the goose pimples popping out on my flesh.

 

Through the next-to-last turn Lime-Green stays tight on Red 76's butt.

 

The lead purple car and 76 swing up towards the retaining wall in the straight away.

 

The Green Machine makes his move and slides his front bumper and quarter panel alongside Red 76 on the inside.

 

We're caught in a trap. Purple 7 in front, wall on the right, and Lime-Green 16's bumper to our rear left side.

 

The trio dives from the wall for the inside of the last turn.

 

The Green Monster vies to keep his position on the inside.

 

Big Red 76 dive bombs to the inside of the turn, not seeing Green 16, and smacks Lime-Green's front right tire.

 

The Green Machine bobbles to the inside and over corrects, just misses the rear bumper of Red 76, overcorrects again, fish tails, loses it, flat spins across the track and smacks the wall like a wrecking ball. Green sheet metal flies off from the front right corner panel and the rest of the right side smears the wall and sparks fly into the air where metal meets concrete.

 

We're on our feet. “Whoa!” I shout.

 

“Holy shit!” escapes Father's mouth.

 

The rest of the pack screams by to the inside of the corner.

 

Coming out of the turn, Big Red 76 has his right foot deep into the gas tank. He hangs tight to the inside track and just to the left of Purple People Eater. Each driver makes the white knuckle dash to the finish line. The checkered flag is spinning like a Tilt-A-Whirl.

 

Dad and I both scream in unison, “GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

 

Two cars cross the finish line. The paint color of the first car's bumper is....purple.

 

“Dammit!” I exclaim.

 

“But what a race!” Dad throws in. “Wow!” Dad has his right hand out flat and I smack it hard. “Great day for the race track, eh?”

 

“Absolutely!” My grin almost splits my head in half.

 

 

 

After the dirt track stock car races they hold the mini-sprint races, and then the finale is the figure 8 stocker races. We see several cars get creamed as the drivers crisscross in the middle of the 8. It's loud, and scary, and obnoxious. Pure Father and son bliss.

 

Then I see them.

 

My hands go cold and clammy and beads of sweat swell upon my brow. I'm in a state of panic, yet my butt cheeks are wet flesh stuck to the bleacher seat’s block of ice.

 

The tribe of three stands outside the fence of the track peering in. They're falling all over each other. Spittle sprays from their mouths as they yell out to the race cars, the folks in the pits, and those of us in the bleachers. When they speak to one another they shower each other with saliva and exchange elbow bumps, hip checks, and chest slams. Concoctions of high-test disinfectant still go from paw to paw and jaw to jaw.

 

Nobody light a match.

 

Finally the arrow from a set of eyeballs finds its mark.

 

I've been spotted.

 

One of Stain-Savage's shafts from his quiver strikes first. With the flint knapped stone of his finger he points and hits me directly between my two eyes. He bespeaks the coordinates of his strike to the other two members of his war party.

 

Now Gray-Bud and Big-Chief's volley of eyeball arrows catch me too. Big-Chief's arm extends and I can feel the arrow tip of his extending finger dig into my belly. The shrapnel from his eyeballs hits me hard.

 

The world around grows large as I shrink in comparison. I am again the microbe viewed by the tribe of three under their microscope-aided eyes.

 

Big-Chief jumps up and digs his claws into the track's chain link fence. Hanging there he speaks viciously while his arrow tipped eyeballs lock onto my pupils, his bullseye. His mouth moves angrily while droplets explode from his lips. Most of it is audibly hidden by distance, crowd noise, and roaring engines, but I swear I just heard him screaming, “We are taking back our people's name Dakota, DAKOTA, DAKOTA!!!!”

 

Big-Chief is now bathed in intermittent red light. Then he becomes the star of the show as he is spotlighted from behind.

 

Gray-Bud and Stain-Savage are trying to pry him off the fence, grabbing at his legs, but the big cat has its talons locked on.

 

He continues hissing directly at me, an enraged animal.

 

The source of the rolling red lights and the spotlight pulls up behind the roaring mountain lion on the fence. The police car's PA system is barely audible over the racing chaos inside the fence. All I heard of it is, “..........off the fence!”

 

Big Chief ignores it and continues ranting.

 

A couple minutes later, two other cop cars pull into the race track parking lot and make their way up to the fence and the standoff.

 

The track lights start flashing red to prematurely end the race and get the cars off of the track. They mirror the red lights of the police cars.

 

The cops are out of their cars.

 

Gray-Bud and Stain-Savage are screaming at the cops and the police officers are yelling back at them with their hands upon their holstered .38's.

 

Big-Chief is still screaming at me and violently rattling the fence with his psychotic brute force.

 

The driving officer of the first police vehicle removes his pistol from its holster and raises it in the air behind the irate Big-Chief. A flash of bright white light explodes from the barrel, and the crack of the firearm causes a simultaneous jerk in my body and all of those in the grandstands. It was definitely heard over the roar of all the pitting race machines. And it demanded the attention of Stain-Savage, Gray-Bud, and Big-Chief.

 

The animal, on the fence, tucks his head into his shoulders and then turns to look into the barrel of the revolver.

 

The officer's lips begin to move as Big-Chief pays full attention now.

 

The cat crawls down from the fence, his claws retract, and his paws go into the air.

 

The officer backs away and Big-Chief walks down the berm of dirt.

 

Official lips move.

 

Big-Chief goes to his knees and drops down onto his belly, face down in the gravel and dirt.

 

The officer's partner puts a knee in the big Indians back and shackles the wrists of the captured animal.

 

Gray-Bud and Stain-Savage are each sprawled across the other two police cars hoods and are also being handcuffed.

 

The last of the engine's from the racing derby cars die and only a slight murmur of the crowd is heard in the grandstands. All eyes are affixed to the police cavalry and the handcuffed red men.

 

The fired .38 is re-holstered. The two cop's from the first car each grab an arm of the bound Big-Chief and lead the animal to his cage. A hand grabs the top of his scalp as he bends low and forces him and his head into the back seat. The door shuts and the lion of the prairie is captured.

 

Gray-Bud and Stain-Savage are both ensconced in the back seat of each of their respective cages.

 

A roar and applause rise up from the bleachers.

 

My gluteus muscles are still frozen to the seat of the bleachers.

 

My Father looks at me. “Dakota? Are you okay? You're white as a ghost.”

 

I cannot speak. I can only stare at the big Indian that stares back at me behind the glass of a cop car. Eyes locked like enemies. The caged predator and his quivering prey on the outside looking in.

 

The red lights of the race track and those of the cop cars die. The spot light turns off. The police autos are started, back away, drive through the spectators cars in the parking lot, out onto the highway and head back into Randalville.

 

I finally breathe a huge breath. Oxygen reaches my muscles and I am able to slowly move and reanimate. My voice finally returns too, “That was them Dad. The Lysol Indians. Can we go home now?”

Dad looks at me with confused eyes, considering my plight. “Son, they're gone now. They'll all be behind bars in a matter of minutes. Let's just relax here, watch the last of the figure 8 race and then we'll head home. You've faced your fear and survived it. You'll be alright now. Plus I'm here. I'll always protect you. You don't have to worry. I'm here for you Dakota. I'll always be here for you.” He puts his arm on my shoulder and I immediately feel a little bit better.

​

The grandstand PA system comes on and the announcer blurts something about a little extra excitement at the race track tonight and then something about getting back to the racing.

 

The race engines come back to life, the cars enter the track, and the flag man makes the green colors dance in the air above the cars. The race is back on.

​

I settle down, settle in, and get back into the excitement of the race. The incident with the wild Indians fades, but still lurks in the back of my mind. But yes, my Father is here for me. I'll be safe. I'm okay.

 

 

 

After the races we sit in the lineup of cars trying to exit the dirt and gravel parking lot. It's taking forever.

 

I really want Dad to just be on the open road and stomp the accelerator to the floor. The adrenaline is still pumping and my heart is thumping in my chest, but all we are doing is inching along with the rest of the herd of snails.

 

We finally get out of the parking lot and onto the highway and drive back into Randalville proper and then back onto the highway towards Rock Springs and home.

 

The sun has long since passed below the horizon and I can see the few on-coming cars and trucks headlights and also the taillights of the thicker populace of those souls heading south with us.

 

I gaze out my passenger side window at the many stars above. Dad's country music lulls me away to my dreamy place. Stars blur by and my eyelids droop.