Dakota Dream (9 page)

But then I came home from school one day and made a discovery that really funked me.

My new roommate, the guy named Nicky, turned out to be the same hairball that sat next to me when I was serving detentions. I couldn't believe it; I remembered that Kinderhook had told me the name was Nicky, but who would've put two and two together?

When I got there, he was in the middle of unpacking his stuff and putting up
Iron Maiden
and
Harley-Davidson
posters on his half of the walls. He had this big grin as soon as he saw me. “Yo, bro. We meet again.”

I didn't say anything. I sat down on my bed and wondered,
Why me?
I started putting my books away.

While he was unpacking, he was telling me how he'd been hung out for about six weeks, hoping they'd let him stay with his mother, but now it looked like this placement at Gates was more or less permanent. I didn't say much; not that I get any pleasure from another person being hung out, but I didn't want to give him too much encouragement.

When I was serving detentions, I made a point of trying to ignore him, but now I was checking him out. Not being too obvious about it, of course. He was about five feet two and weighed maybe one hundred pounds at the most. Like a lot of the punks you run into, he wanted to look like a tough guy. His hair was long and greased back like Fonzie on
Happy Days.
He had on this black leather motorcycle jacket, even though it was the month of May and real warm, and engineer boots with metal heel taps. He had a big Harley-Davidson belt buckle that said,
Ride to Live, Live to Ride.

I got out my journal and propped myself up on the bed. Trying to ignore him, I started jotting down what would be the qualities of the ideal roommate. He would be clean. He would be neat and keep all his stuff on his own half. He would be quiet and mind his own business. I began to realize I was describing myself.

Nicky kept trying to interest me in the stuff he was unpacking. He started opening up
Iron Horse
magazines, and showing me pictures of naked girls sitting on big Harley hogs.

“Check it out,” he said, with the big grin. “Is she prime or what?”

I thought about telling him he might go on pro if Mrs. Grice found the magazines, but then I figured, what the hell, he was big enough to sink or swim on his own.

Then he saw my ceremonial on the dresser and wanted to know about it.

“It's a Dakota ceremonial pipe,” I said. “It's authentic.”

“What, do you smoke it?”

“I don't smoke it the way a person smokes a pipe, you know, to
smoke.
No one does. It's like a religious item; it's used by the Indians for special occasions.”

Then he wanted to know what it was made of. Not that I thought he had any real interest in Dakota culture, but it would be easier to answer his question than to find a way to put him off.

“The whole pipe is made of catlinite,” I told him.

“What the hell is that?”

“It's a kind of red stone that gets mined in places like Minnesota and the Dakotas. That's why the pipe is authentic. If you buy a so-called Indian pipe in a mall or someplace, it will be made of wood or plastic.”

“What are the feathers for?”

“I'm getting to that. The small ones represent the four corners of the universe. The black one is for the west, the white one is for the north, the red one is for the east, and the yellow one is for the south. The eagle feather is the most important one; it represents the Great Spirit,
Wakan Tanka.
”

He said, “You're really into Indians, man.” But I could tell he was already bored. I put the pipe away, under some clothes in the bottom dresser drawer. It wasn't supposed to be out in view anyway.

Then he wanted to know about my journal and what I was writing in it. I wasn't anxious to go into a lot of detail, so I just sort of rifled the pages to show the scope of it. I told him some of it was diary stuff, but a lot of it was story notes and outlines.

“You wrote all those stories?”

“Like I said, these are mostly outlines and notes. Sometimes I get one finished.” I hoped that would be the end of the conversation.

Unfortunately, he remembered that story contest form from the first day we were in detention together. He pestered me a dozen times to tell him about one of the stories, one that I might use in the contest.

To get him off my back, I finally said, “Just one, and then we drop it. I'm not in the head for this.”

It seemed to satisfy him, so I found the one about the military takeover where the agents round up everyone who is a TUS and take them away for elimination. I didn't actually
read
the story to him, I basically just skimmed my notes and summed up.

“What's a TUS?” Nicky wanted to know.

“Weren't you listening? TUS is an acronym for anyone who just takes up space. People who make no contribution.”

He said, “How are they eliminated?”

“It doesn't really make any difference,” I said.

“But I mean how? Do they get the chair or the gas chamber? Maybe it's up against the wall in front of the firing squad. How are they eliminated?”

I tried to explain. “It doesn't really matter. The point is, if all you do is take up space, you are targeted for elimination.”

Then he asked me: “Is this for real?”

I almost fell over from disbelief. “Don't you get it? This is an outline for a
story.
”

“Yeah, but if this was for real, I'd like to be one of the military police who goes around and croaks these losers.”

What could you say to such a person? I didn't have the heart to tell him that if this was for real, he would probably be a TUS with a very limited future.

A few days after that, Barb came over in her car. She said she had a couple of things to discuss, but Gates House was not the best place to talk, so maybe we should take a ride.

We stopped at a Dairy Queen to get a small cone, which we ate in the car. She was pretty good at eating and driving at the same time. We talked about Indians for a while; I don't remember the conversation in particular, but she seemed to have more than your average interest in Plains Indian customs.

“I'm graduating next week,” she told me. “I'll be an honest-to-god MSW.”

“That's good,” I said. “Congratulations.”

She was talking with a mouthful: “I'll be getting a full caseload. That means less time to spend with you.”

Actually, it was a relief to hear it. Not that I didn't like her—her redeeming features were fairly obvious. I wondered where we were going and what it was we were supposed to be doing.

We ended up at her house, which was a big old two-story with lots of shade trees. She walked me through the backyard, which was big, and in through the back door. I guess it was because of the shade trees, but the rooms in the house seemed kind of dark.

The furniture in her living room had a lot of mileage on it, but it was homey. There was a military sword above the fireplace mantel. Barb said it belonged to her husband. There were two large framed pictures on the mantel, one of her husband and one of her son. The son was in an army uniform.

“He died two years ago in Lebanon,” she told me. “There were seven GIs killed in a terrorist bombing at a railroad station.”

It was sad, because I knew her husband was dead, too. “I'm sorry,” I mumbled. It was all I could think to say.

“So am I,” she said. Then she turned and headed for the kitchen. I could tell she was wiping tears, even though I couldn't see her face. Then I got a little pissed. She was supposed to be my
social worker
, for christ sake. What were we doing at her house looking at meaningful pictures and stopping on the way for ice-cream cones?

Eventually, I followed her into the kitchen. She gave me a Pepsi and offered me some popcorn, but I said no thanks; all I could think of was no-teeth Mrs. Grice and her crackling cellophane bags.

Barb said to me, “I got your probation lifted.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“We had a meeting. Mrs. Grice was there. Also Mr. Wagner, the head of the agency, and the agency psychologist.”

“Sounds just like a staffing.”

“Not quite on the scale of a staffing. I got all the facts and I told them I couldn't see how you deserved to be on probation. I don't think I made myself very popular, especially with Mrs. Grice.”

I suppose she thought I should be gushing all over with gratitude or something, when my probation was over in two weeks anyway.

“You're not happy,” she said. “I thought it would make you happy to be off probation.”

What did she want me to say? Why couldn't I have an old worn-out social worker who just went through the motions? I said, “What I want with Mrs. Grice is to turn invisible. She already watches me like a hawk, only now it'll be even more so.”

“A good point,” said Barb. “Which leads me to a question: Is this a good placement for you?”

“I don't know what that means. You get placed and then you get placed again. Some of them are better than others.”

“What it means is, are you happy with your placement?”

“Happy?” She was getting me pissed and doubly pissed that I was letting myself get dragged into this conversation. “You get the shitheads like Mrs. Grice and you do whatever it takes. Sometimes you get better placements and life gets easier.”

“I have a better idea. Why not try for the best possible placement, especially if you're in an unhappy situation?”

“You think that's a better idea?”

“I guess I must, or I wouldn't have said it.”

She just didn't get it. She was too green to get it. She needed to get the shit kicked out of her a couple of times and then maybe she'd understand. Only I didn't care to be the guinea pig for her to learn on. I changed my approach: “I don't want to talk about a new placement. I don't want to get hung out again.”

“Please tell me more.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “Maybe I'll learn something.” She lit up one of her Marlboro Lights.

“The thing that's worse than getting a bad placement is the way they leave you hanging when they know they're going to find a new placement for you, but they don't know where they're going to put you, or how soon.”

“You're talking about the uncertainty,” she said. “You're neither fish nor fowl.”

“Right. They start having staffings on you, and they decide you do need a new placement. So you just sort of hang there, maybe a month, maybe three months, maybe even longer, and you don't feel like you belong where you are, but there's no other place for you to go.”

She was looking at me. I didn't want that, either. She said to me, “I understand what you're telling me.”

“If this is sympathy, I don't want it,” I said. “I don't want sympathy and I don't want pity. I also don't want you fighting my battles for me.”

“You know what I think, Floyd? You turn everything in.”

“I turn everything in?”

“You can't turn everything in on yourself. Some things you have to turn out and ask for help.”

“You get that way,” I said. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had a conversation like this. Maybe never.

She went on. “It never crossed your mind to ask for help when you went on probation. I don't think it crossed your mind that you even have rights.”

“I'm not a whiner.”

“It's not whining to ask for help.”

“I'll tell you this much about my destiny.”

“You want to talk about your Indian destiny? Are we changing the subject?”

“Maybe yes, and maybe no. Here's my point: There's an inside home and an outside home. Your inside home is the things you believe in, such as your goals. In my case it's wrapped up in my destiny. Your outside home is your placement. If you're together on the inside home, you've more or less gotten yourself outside the power of the system. It doesn't matter a hell of a lot what they do with your outside home.”

Barb was putting out her cigarette. “You do have interesting thoughts,” she said. “But I would need some time to ponder that. Let's table the talk about a new placement. We won't bring it up again unless you say so.”

I wanted to tell her that'll be the day, but I just said okay.

Then she said, “You're probably wondering why I brought you over here.”

“I'm wondering what?”

“Why I brought you to my home. There has to be a reason, right?”

I told her it must be the conversation we just had.

She waved her hand. “Not even close. Follow me.” She went out the back door, heading for the garage. A little confused, I followed along.

The garage was big, with lots of tools hung on pegboard; it had that smell I really like, the smell of old oil and dirt mixed together.

Barb said, “My husband was a handyman. A real do-it-yourselfer.” But you could tell that wasn't what was really on her mind. She was rummaging through this big wooden cabinet.

She brought out an old, brown baseball with a couple of loose stitches, and two baseball mitts. One was an ancient catcher's mitt, and the other was a more modern fielder's glove.

“Baseball,” she said.

“Mhmm.”

“How would you like to be on a baseball team?”

Naturally, I didn't have an answer ready for this.

“They're starting up a PONY league this summer. They'll have actual big league uniforms. How would you like to play for the Cubs?”

“A baseball team?” I said.

“I have a good friend named Nolan,” she said. “He farms west of town. He's going to coach the team. If you want to play, all you have to do is say the word.”

“This is why you brought me to your house?”

“I think you need to be involved in more activities with other kids. I thought maybe a baseball team would be just the thing.”