Indian

Indian

A short story

Ben Jimenez

           On hot days, the stench of urine and spilt beer would seep into the Indian’s room, sometimes while he read his books of light and peace. A rusted iron fence like a cage black with chips of old red paint adorned his basement room’s window, and the street outside was chaotic indeed. From fights, to music, to games with kids yelling and always running amok. The noise, life on the side walk by his bed raved of itself and everyday it roared to be heard, but although he tried his best to isolate himself from everyone, he believed his purpose in life was simple; even as he gazed lovingly, he knew his goal. Indian would change the world, that was his dream and only desire, unless you think desiring not to desire is a desire.

           So lucid were Indian’s dreams, as so clear was his mind, like a calm oasis of peace. Such a stillness he exuded, it was a sweetness that glistened, an inner beauty reflected everywhere he went bent from his eyes staring at the nothingness of always modest assumptions based on content. A type of pensiveness crept through his brain as he constantly struggled to fight off all chatter. His thoughts were clear enough to save the world with one poem but, he did not wish to write. As well was it rare when he spoke. He had another plan for his essence … to live always separate from his soul. To watch and love himself from what devine nature brought.

           The Indian’s name was Joseph Santo, he and his parents moved to New Jersey from Peru when he was three in the early 70's. His blood was pure Inca of the Peruvian Andes, but he kept his hair long like the North American Indians he admired. Indian wore whatever his mother would buy him. He never wished to pick and choose his clothes and so, his mother dressed him like the boys in Sears or JC Penny catalogs.

           Indian’s father, Marko, never let him watch TV like other kids; instead he locked him in his room and forced him to read. Not until Joseph was eight did he finally convince his father to let him a have radio; it was a small AM only alarm clock. Marko was a very hard and shroud man yet, never did he express anger toward his family. He was an accountant in Peru but, in New Jersey he worked in a factory, sweeping floors and loading trucks with plywood and hand made furniture. Greed and guilt brought about by the distress of business had caused the heavy set middle-aged man to renounce money to the point whereby he swore never to earn more than his family needed to survive and live moderately. Although Indian’s mother, Rosa, worked in a sewing factory from dusk till dawn, the family was so called working poor, and Marko reveled in his quite honor.

           The family kept to itself. In their small two-bedroom basement apartment rarely was a word spoken. The three loved their silence; it was a peace that flowered in their dreams. They lived without a telephone, a TV, a car, or even a radio, except for Joe’s clock. Not until his fifteenth birthday was Joseph allowed to leave the apartment alone, other than to go to school or for a chore.

           Across the street from his window were three story buildings with a store front ground floor that was old, battered, and dirty, an eye sore with dirty tattered banners and signs. From the window if you paid attention you'd see young boys selling drugs near the corner liquor store they’d have passerby’s buy them beer from. He knew them from school yet; he dared not make any friends. To all that knew him, Joseph was the Indian, a hermit who watched the world from his window until someone would catch his eye and he’d retreat back to his seclusion. At night on weekends in the summer many adults would sit on the steps of Joe’s building or lean on parked cars drinking beers in paper bags. It was a cramped set of streets where passion and desire could be felt through the occasional shouting and laughter. A communal bond existed from shared misery but it was unactualized with the exception of occasions like the 4th or Halloween when the streets were littered with party bombs or broken eggs and flour flung, scattered from socks in friendly battle.

           Joseph was extremely honest with his parents, never had he ventured out besides going to school and the store for a chore. Joseph questioned whether he was honest enough with strangers or would be acquaintances because his eyes were always welcoming and, with a constant smile he concealed thoughts. He had become a symbol attested by his divine aura. The warmth of Joseph’s eyes reared deeper than his need of family muse. His eyes revealed the comfort of angels, his expression of a celestial sort.

           It was very rare for Marko to drink, but one night some rudeness stroked enough of his anger to cause him to get drunk. On that night he took Joseph up to the roof of their five-story building. They stared at the Hudson River and, at Manhattan. Joe peered at the little forests strown about off cliffs trying to make out the contours of the foliage. A path could barely be seen among several great rocks worn of magestic silver aging. The crickets were too far to hear; and all the birds seemed asleep, but in truth they were too far.

           “Your not missing anything my son, the world is a vine that strangles and deafens.”

           Joseph answered softly, “ All we need is in our face…. Yours is too sad.”...That was all they said that night.”

           It was not until 1985, on Joseph’s fifteenth birthday that Joe was asked to step out of the home for his own leisure. He headed straight for the cliffs. To display his trust Marko did not ask his son where he would go. His mother instead waited outside for Joe as his father woke him. She sat on the front steps of the building weeping.

           “Ma, why are you crying?”

           “Where are you going my son?”

           “To the forest.”

           “Why?!?," she trembled.

           “Please don’t cry mama, I just want to be among the trees.”

           As never before Rosa felt great fear for Joe, imagining his death. She didn’t believe her son, feeling he wanted something more than visiting with trees. Although Joe didn’t show it, Rosa knew it was a very special morning for him. She knew more than her son that deep down Joe had something planned. As such was Joe’s mind given to the whim of the only need he thought of, the essence of love in so many things that existed for him to behold.

           The cliff was steep, its trees seemed to cling together and Joe climbed down hanging on to them over rocks and weeds big and small. In the distance and through the thick of weeds Joe could faintly follow a path that narrowly stretched up parallel to the mighty river under the George Washington Bridge. On the dirt path lay many cans and cigarettes marking places people enjoyed and desecrated with garbage. In the middle of the cliff at least a mile away, Joe saw three large rocks ten feet off the path. The rocks were about twenty feet over a highway below, near storm ridden ghost docks over looking midtown Manhattan, abandoned for plans of a future neighborhood not yet built. The big rocks were vandalized with names and it was a bit of a climb to get to their fifteen feet wide flat tops, which loomed over the trees in a somewhat humble bend inward. Joe sat on the flat leaning rock very still as he closed his eyes listening to his breath.

           Though faint, Joe heard the birds he expected, more their movement than their song and, deeper still did he listen to his breath. Deeper still into his breath he heard the cars in the distance and, in them he felt desire, urging all of them. As if one with his breath, involuntarily listening to it, another part of his mind began to feel; excuses, excuses faintly raging in the minds flower like the wind, drawn to want yet, still drawn to need in Joe like rain to quench what fear might cause the morning’s disdains and at that moment a humble epiphany. Everyone's needs became Joe's passion! Can you feel people? We only know ourselves at peace. A slow concert crept up from the stillness in his eyes, the leaves dancing with the wind; spiraled of nature’s perfect blend. Unity itself was like a dance and there need not be compromise in dance, it is harmony. What ritual? What prayer? The realm of healing in all to see the sweetness hidden in our favor? No longer for faces to cut each other off, comforting lies cradling pleasures; now the roots have gained strong soil made of air. What sign? What alarm, can at once shout out warnings held secret? He felt the souls of thousands during the three hours he sat. He opened his eyes and heard the voice of God as birds now sung as if were dawn. It was a new day now.

           Joe walked home suddenly drawn to people. He greeted seven strangers in the street, shaking their hands, as they stared awestruck having seen him before, knowing of him. Hello was all he said and, it was enough to feel the resurrection in his eyes. An eighth stranger’s name was Jose. Joe brooded somewhat over him as if he had just met him, though they had been in class together for years. Jose was hanging out on the corner waiting to see someone for “something”. That “something” lingered in Joe’s mind and as an angel he asked him, “What are you waiting for Jose?”

           Jose growled, “What, mother f$%#@er you never talk and now so ask me what the f#@k I’m waiting for? I got a good question for you Indian. Why are you a damn mute?”

           “From now on I will”, pleaded Joe victoriously.

           “If you don’t get away from me you’re not going to wake from the dead you’re going to be dead, get it hermiee Cochise motherf@#!r.”

           “Yes, and I ‘m going to do it again tomorrow.”

           “What? Damn you’re a crazy motherf!@#er, huh?

           “Maybe, but I’m not as crazy as you are, “ smiled Joe.

Jose spit on Joe’s face before clinching his jaw in anger. He thought about stabbing Joe in the stomach with the switchblade in his pocket. He clinched the blade from outside his pocket, gearing himself up; swaying with irritation.

           “Get out of here or you’re going to die!”

           “Well then, let’s go to my house for a prayer, Jose.”

Jose slapped Joe across the face instantly leaving a red mark but Joe backed away slowly as if possessed, remembering the Cherokee, he felt for the first time human among a bond wrought with abandon; his cheek like an offering to Christ. Joseph bravely peered at the floor and walked away. Although he turned his eyes away from him, he was not frightened; he did not know fear.

The angry teen inturn felt something aching in his heart; an enormous unsuspecting guilt for what he did to Joe. For the first time in his life Jose felt shame like a badge of disgust. The encounter soured him to slowly rot if he looked at the Indian again. He looked away from Joe pretending the incident never happened because of he feared his own wrath. Joe had disrupted his order he thought but deep down inside he knew he'd pounce on Joseph if merely to absorb such strength some how. Unknown feelings to him were like poison until the day he drank from the well of his heart.

           That night Marko didn't ask his son how he would deal with Jose again because Joe's reserve gave him a new found pride; a pride he to would come to cherish and embrace. Like Galahad the knight he weilded the power of grace personified. Later on in his thoughts he wepted finally realizing such power could exist, and from his own son! Rosa's tears meanwhile went from worry to praise. She insisted her son invite Jose over for dinner.

"I'm not as brave as you my son." She beamed, "I need to know if you are safe, and you can bring anyone here; as long as the world stays outside."

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