Frankie felt grateful to Anne for giving her the job at The Wheel—the hours were perfect for her class schedule—but, at the same time, she was a little afraid of her. Anne wasn’t the friendliest boss Frankie had ever worked for, and the only generosity Anne could be considered guilty of was letting her employees drink as much as they wanted the last half hour before closing. This was a mixed blessing, though, because Frankie and the others soon got very good at tossing down shots in that last half hour, and they often got so drunk so quickly that during clean-up, several glasses and, occasionally, a chair got broken. The replacement costs came out of their wages, and they went home most nights feeling sick and vaguely cheated.
Anne’s gimlet eyes went immediately to the Indian. The bartender had just set another beer in front of the Indian when he saw Anne approaching. He took the dollar bill the Indian had placed on the bar and backed away quickly. A little fist of fear grabbed in Frankie’s chest.
Anne stopped abruptly by the Indian’s bar stool. “You’ll have to leave,” she said sharply. The Indian looked from side to side slowly, not seeming to understand the words or even where they were coming from.
“Leave. Now.” The words were authoritative, but not loud. Only Frankie and Mike and Gary and his friend at Table 3 heard. And the Indian. The other customers continued to laugh and talk and smoke. The Indian stared at Anne as if to read her lips.
“Now. Get out.” Anne’s words flicked through the smoky air. The Indian stood up, still holding his beer, and peered at her through half-closed eyes.
“Get out now, or I’ll call the police.” Anne reached past him and opened the side door of the bar. The Indian slowly turned to look around the room, as if for an ally or at least an explanation. His gaze passed over Gary and his friend and stopped on Frankie. She stood still, clutching her drink tray to her chest where the tightness made it hard to breathe.
The Indian set his beer down carefully. Slowly, he moved away from the bar, pushed through the side door, and stepped out into the alley. Anne shut the door firmly and marched back to her office. She said nothing to either Frankie or the bartender. Frankie stepped back as Anne passed. Mike snatched up the Indian’s beer glass and wiped the bar where it had been. Gary and his friend sat in silence, Gary still red-faced and breathing heavily, his friend searching the pockets of his jacket nervously, his eyes cast down. The rest of the customers continued their talking and smoking.
“Miss, can we get those drinks?”
Frankie turned to the group at a table behind her. “Sure. Right away.” She gave their drink order to Mike without looking at him, and he filled it without comment. As she was distributing the drinks, she noticed Gary and his friend putting on their jackets. Thank God. Gary’s friend seemed to be trying to catch her eye, but Frankie looked away. She lingered at the other tables, carefully resetting glasses on fresh napkins. From the corner of her eye, she saw Gary’s friend leading him by the arm. They crossed the room, and the padded leather front doors swished closed behind them.
At first Frankie thought the alley was deserted, but then she heard a faint scraping noise to her left, and turning, she saw the Indian. He was leaning against a telephone pole, his head back and his eyes closed, the way she’d seen him standing at the bar.
Frankie walked up to him slowly. Was he asleep? Passed out standing up? This close, his face was even bigger, and in the semi-dark, its colors were shades of grey and blue. The panels above his lips and between his eyes, his temples, the vast forehead and cheeks were all slate and cobalt and tungsten. She took the twenty-dollar bill from her pocket and held it out in front of her. “Excuse me.” The Indian didn’t move or open his eyes. She stepped closer and brushed the front of his jacket with the bill. “Excuse me. Ah, are you okay?” Still, he didn’t move.
She extended a forefinger and gingerly touched the second button on the Indian’s jacket. Pressed lightly. Pressed harder. Suddenly, his big eyes snapped open. She jumped back. “Jeez, you scared me. Are you okay?” Frankie nodded toward the bar. “Hey, I’m really sorry about all that.”
The Indian with the big face looked at her. He said nothing, and he didn’t look at the twenty-dollar bill.
“Here, I thought maybe you could use this.” Frankie held the twenty out at arm’s length, as if offering scrap meat to an unfamiliar dog. “I’m sorry she was so rude to you.”
The Indian still didn’t look at the twenty, but his hand came up from his side and took the bill. His huge eyes reflected the dim light flatly.
“I gotta get back inside.” The Indian said nothing. “It’s cold. I’m still on shift.” Frankie backed away. “Well, goodnight,” she said, “thanks.” She paused with her hand on the knob of the side door. The Indian had gone back to his pose, big eyes closed, big face turned toward the sky. Frankie open the door of The Wheel and went inside.
*Photo of the train depot courtesy of Connie Rodriguez-Flatten, 2011
[To order a copy of the book, Walking Pocatello, call the Idaho State University Bookstore, (208) 282-3237, or send me an email.]
*Photo of the train depot courtesy of Connie Rodriguez-Flatten, 2011
[To order a copy of the book, Walking Pocatello, call the Idaho State University Bookstore, (208) 282-3237, or send me an email.]
