Last night, in 7-11, the cashier reached
across the counter to scan my purchases
then grimaced and grabbed the small
of his back. I know that pain well
so I said, “I’ve got a bad back, too.”
He sighed and said, “It is the lifting,”
he said. “I lift too many bottles
and cans in the cooler.” He owns
the store, I think, because he seems
to work every shift just like my boss
who often worked the graveyard
shift with me at the 24-hour deli
in 1987. I was slender in those years
and a good athlete but my back still
ached. “It’s my long torso,” I said
to the 7-11 owner. “And my legs
are goofy short. I’m 6-2 standing up
and 6-8 sitting down. I’m a bad
lever.” Then I bent slightly
at the waist to give him visual
evidence and laughed when
that move made my back spasm.
“You are not old,” the 7-11 owner
said. “And I am not old. But we
are old.” I smiled at his poetic
observation then carefully carried
my purchases toward my car
but stopped first to give Jason,
the homeless man, all the stuff
that I’d bought for him: the Italian
sub sandwich, potato chips, Sprite,
and beef jerky for his dog, Lady.
I don’t know why Jason is homeless.
He uses a wheelchair. I fist-bump him
then I ease into my car and drive
away. I like to help the men and women
who sit outside convenience stores.
I rarely have cash to give them. Who
carries cash these days? Instead,
I buy them mostly food and drinks.
But I’ve also bought them medicine,
toothpaste, deodorant, and various
other toiletries, too. But I won’t buy
them cigarettes or booze. I always feel
hypocritical for making that tiny
moral stand. Why do I make myself
the judge? I haul around dozens
of my own addictions. Maybe
that’s why my back is bad. Onstage,
I used to tell audiences that my spine
was twisted from carrying the burden
of my race. I used to say that every
Indian struggles with a limp
in the bones and soul. But, then
again, I shouldn’t get too wrapped
up in my Indian-ness. All around me,
people of every kin and kind are
limping. Ah, the eternal diversity
of the limp! Ah, the endless variations
of the bent and busted back!
Last night, after I arrived home
from the 7-11, I saw that my friends
and family had sent me dozens
of texts and emails about Trump.
I read a few—all the rage, doubt,
and fear are justified—but I felt
my back spasm again. I didn’t want
to feel that weight so I deleted all
of the unread messages, links,
and emails. Then I lay flat
on the floor and talked aloud
to everybody in my life. Listen,
I said. You’re letting that man take
hours, days, weeks, months,
and years from your life. But more
than that, you’re letting him turn
you into the worst possible version
of yourself. He’s a contagion
and you’re coughing up blood.
There’s pieces of you splattered
across the screens of your phones,
tablets, and laptops. Yeah, I know
I was being a moralizing asshole
but the daily news is stripping
the flesh from my body and soul.
Yeah, I know that many people
are in danger but my solipsistic
fury doesn’t protect anybody.
I know, as a writer and an Indian
and an Indian writer that I am
expected to offer advice. But
I have nothing but this consolation:
Everything you’re feeling now
is what I’ve always felt
as a reservation-raised Indian.
And, hey, I’m a survivor. I’m 51%
intact. In this moment, as I write,
I can hear the bathroom fan
but I’m going to pretend
it’s the roar of a mythical
waterfall that the multitudes
of wild salmon are still
climbing. And, hey, I might
as well be a brown bear
fishing with my sharp claws.
Look at me! I’m carrying
a wild salmon in my teeth.
I’m going to feast then fall
and fall into a gorgeous
hibernation for at least
the next hour or three.
I’m going to rub my sleepy
eyes and pray that winter
will quickly change
into spring. I’m going to press
my bad back against the earth
and wait for everybody’s rebirth.