Tension on the Reservation…by Robert M. Katzman
July 16, 2013
1985
I’m unemployed
Uncertain about my chances
My son and I
In an ancient Chevy van
Take off to see America’s West
Driving by day
Sleeping in the van at night
Cooking our meals on a three-burner
Coleman stove
A can opener the essential tool
I am thirty-five
My son is six
We are on a Great Adventure
We will be gone for five weeks
Many small towns won’t let you park
To sleep overnight
We have to hunt in the dark
For a both safe and legal spot
Harder than you think
We cross many rivers
Sunlight glinting off of them
Stop to swim in them
Freeze our damn nuts off
See animals everywhere
Deer, possum, rabbits, raccoons
Fox, coyotes, armadillos, buffalo
My son thinks the world is a zoo
Late one night
In simmering Arizona
In the middle of a desert
We coast through a ghost town
Silently looking
To park, eat, sleep
The days broil
The nights shivery
The ragged metal sign said:
Hualapai Indian Reservation
There were bullet holes in the sign
With our near empty gas tank
Too late to hunt
For another town
We see no one
The road breaks into gravel
Shacks with collapsed roofs
Rusted cars scattered
Occasional street lights
But no people appear
On this Indian Reservation
I spy an old foundation
Sagebrush and a single streetlight
Options few, I pull in
We set up our usual dinner routine
My boy and me
Alone in the quiet of the night
I open a card table
Haul out the green stove
Fill the tank with white gas
Open two folding chairs
Set the two-mantle gas lantern
On our shaky table
It hisses a greeting
I light the fragile mantles
With a long wooden match
The match’s yellow flame
Brilliant in the blackness
All around us
Several tin cans opened
Paper plates ready
Water in the cups
Pots of tasty food
Bubbling on the three burners
Beef stew, corn, carrots
Boiled potatoes
I stir and serve
Another night on the road
Then
From nowhere
Absolutely nowhere
A battered pickup truck
Roars into the lot
Half a dozen men
In the front
In the back
All drinking beer
Not smiling
 I can see
They are Indians
And we are on their land
White men on their land
Trespassing on
The Reservation of the Hualapai
My son keeps eating
I sit still as a stone
Knowing our possible fate
Our chances of escape
Are Zero
My small son is not afraid
He has not yet learned
To be afraid
At times like this
I wait
A very tall man
Jumps out of the back of the pickup
Black hat
Long black hair
Spilling over his shoulders
Jean shirt, jean pants
Broad shoulders
Dark skin
Cowboy boots
He stares at both of us
Beer can in his fist
Slightly wavering
Leaning on the pickup
No one speaks
The radio not playing
Silence in the blackness
Surrounding all of us
On their Reservation
My son is blonde
White blonde hair
White pink skin
Like his beautiful mother
Nothing like me
We could be two strangers
Sitting together
At the card table
The tall Indian approaches us
Still slightly wavering
He stands at the edge of the table
He towers over the table
He doesn’t speak
My son keeps eating
He is not afraid
The Indian looks at my son
He turns and looks at me
My dark brown eyes
Dark brown hair
Olive skin
Clearly visible to all of them
In the bright yellow light of my
Hissing Coleman lantern
Setting his beer can on our table
He says to me
In a deep voice
I’m an Indian!
My son looks up at him
I look up at him
I reply
With defiant conviction
I’m an Indian, too!
The tall man looks down at me
Tilts his head
Considering
Deep lines creasing his face
Dark brows bunched
Dry lips frowning
We sit in the silence
All eyes on the two of us
Slowly, he nods his head
Doesn’t smile
Grabs his beer
Staggers back to his pickup
The big motor howls
Breaking the silence
All of them vanishing
As if erased by the wind
Into the night
On their Reservation
Invisible Indians once more
My blonde son keeps eating
I breathe
*********************************
Publishing News!
Bob Katzman’s two new true Chicago books are now for sale, from him!
Vol. One: A Savage Heart and Vol. Two: Fighting Words
Gritty, violent, friendship, classic American entrepreneurship love, death, heartbreak and the real dirt about surviving in a completely corrupt major city under the Chicago Machine. More history and about one man’s life than a person may imagine.
Please visit my new website: https://www.dontgoquietlypress.com
If a person doesn’t want to use PayPaI, I also have a PO Box & I ship anywhere in America.
Send me a money order with your return and contact info.
I will get your books to you within ten days.
Here’s complete information on how to buy my books:
Vol 1: A Savage Heart and Vol. 2: Fighting Words
My books weigh almost 2 pounds each, with about 525 pages each and there are a total together of 79 stories and story/poems.
Robert M. Katzman
Don’t Go Quietly Press
PO Box 44287
Racine, Wis. 53404-9998 (262)752-3333, 8AM–7PM
Books cost $29.95 each, plus shipping
For: (1)$3.95; (2)$5.95; (3)$7.95; (4)$8.95 (5)$9.95;(6) $10.95
(7) $11.95; (8) $12.95; (9)$13.95 (10)$15.95 (15)$19.95
I am also for hire if anyone wants me to read my work and answer questions in the Chicago/Milwaukee area. Schools should call me for quantity discounts for 30 or more books. Also: businesses, bookstores, private organizations or churches and so on.
My Fighting Words Publishing Co. four original books, published between 2004 and 2007 are now out-of-print. I still have some left and will periodically offer them for sale on my new website.