“I can’t do that,” he said. “If I lend you money, I have to lend money to everybody.”
“What can you do?”
“I’ll give you fifty papers for free. But don’t tell anybody I did it.”
“O.K.,” I said.
He gathered up the newspapers and handed them to me. I held them to my chest. He hugged me. I carried the newspapers back toward the water.
Back on the wharf, I stood near the Bainbridge Island Terminal and tried to sell papers to business commuters boarding the ferry.
I sold five in one hour, dumped the other forty-five in a garbage can, and walked into McDonald’s, ordered four cheeseburgers for a dollar each, and slowly ate them.
After eating, I walked outside and vomited on the sidewalk. I hated to lose my food so soon after eating it. As an alcoholic Indian with a busted stomach, I always hope I can keep enough food in me to stay alive.
With one dollar in my pocket, I walked back to Junior. He was still passed out, and I put my ear to his chest and listened for his heartbeat. He was alive, so I took off his shoes and socks and found one dollar in his left sock and fifty cents in his right sock.
With two dollars and fifty cents in my hand, I sat beside Junior and thought about my grandmother and her stories.
When I was thirteen, my grandmother told me a story about the Second World War. She was a nurse at a military hospital in Sydney, Australia. For two years, she healed and comforted American and Australian soldiers.
One day she tended to a wounded Maori soldier, who had lost his legs to an artillery attack. He was very dark-skinned. His hair was black and curly and his eyes were black and warm. His face was covered with bright tattoos.
“Are you Maori?” he asked my grandmother.
“No,” she said. “I’m Spokane Indian. From the United States.”
“Ah, yes,” he said. “I have heard of your tribes. But you are the first American Indian I have ever met.”
“There's a lot of Indian soldiers fighting for the United States,” she said. “I have a brother fighting in Germany, and I lost another brother on Okinawa.”
“I am sorry,” he said. “I was on Okinawa as well. It was terrible.”
“I am sorry about your legs,” my grandmother said.
“It's funny, isn’t it?” he said.
“What's funny?”
“How we brown people are killing other brown people so white people will remain free.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“Well, sometimes I think of it that way. And other times I think of it the way they want me to think of it. I get confused.”
She fed him morphine.
“Do you believe in Heaven?” he asked.
“Which Heaven?” she asked.
“I’m talking about the Heaven where my legs are waiting for me.”
They laughed.
“Of course,” he said, “my legs will probably run away from me when I get to Heaven. And how will I ever catch them?”
“You have to get your arms strong,” my grandmother said. “So you can run on your hands.”
They laughed again.
Sitting beside Junior, I laughed at the memory of my grandmother's story. I put my hand close to Junior's mouth to make sure he was still breathing. Yes, Junior was alive, so I took my two dollars and fifty cents and walked to the Korean grocery store in Pioneer Square.
At the Korean grocery store, I bought a fifty-cent cigar and two scratch lottery tickets for a dollar each. The maximum cash prize was five hundred dollars a ticket. If I won both, I would have enough money to buy back the regalia.
I loved Mary, the young Korean woman who worked the register. She was the daughter of the owners, and she sang all day.
“I love you,” I said when I handed her the money.
“You always say you love me,” she said.
“That's because I will always love you.”
“You are a sentimental fool.”
“I’m a romantic old man.”
“Too old for me.”
“I know I’m too old for you, but I can dream.”
“O.K.,” she said. “I agree to be a part of your dreams, but I will only hold your hand in your dreams. No kissing and no sex. Not even in your dreams.”
“O.K.,” I said. “No sex. Just romance.”
“Good-bye, Jackson Jackson, my love. I will see you soon.”
I left the store, walked over to Occidental Park, sat on a bench, and smoked my cigar all the way down.
Ten minutes after I finished the cigar, I scratched my first lottery ticket and won nothing. I could only win five hundred dollars now, and that would only be half of what I needed.
Ten minutes after I lost, I scratched the other ticket and won a free ticket-a small consolation and one more chance to win some money.
I walked back to Mary.
“Jackson Jackson,” she said. “Have you come back to claim my heart?”
“I won a free ticket,” I said.
“Just like a man,” she said. “You love money and power more than you love me.”
“It's true,” I said. “And I’m sorry it's true.”
She gave me another scratch ticket, and I took it outside. I like to scratch my tickets in private. Hopeful and sad, I scratched that third ticket and won real money. I carried it back inside to Mary.
“I won a hundred dollars,” I said.
She examined the ticket and laughed.
“That's a fortune,” she said, and counted out five twenties. Our fingertips touched as she handed me the money. I felt electric and constant.
“Thank you,” I said, and gave her one of the bills.
“I can’t take that,” she said. “It's your money.”
“No, it's tribal. It's an Indian thing. When you win, you’re supposed to share with your family.”
“I’m not your family.”
“Yes, you are.”
She smiled. She kept the money. With eighty dollars in my pocket, I said good-bye to my dear Mary and walked out into the cold night air.
