Freaks

Freaks

Seattle waterfront, three Indians sharing a bottle of wine and a can of Spam as I walk by. Me, the Indian tourist with half-braids and a wallet full of money.
"Hey, cousin," one of the Indians asks me. "Do you want a drink?"
"No thanks, cousin," I say and walk over to them.
"What tribe you are?" one of the Indians asks me. He's young, maybe twenty,
but his nose is bright red with broken veins.
"Spokane," I say. "What tribe are you guys from?"
"I'm Lakota Sioux," the one with the red nose says, "And these two old farts
are Yakima."
The two old Yakima look alike, almost twins.
"You guys are brothers, enit?" I ask.
They laugh hard.
"Shit, this is my son," the older Yakima says and he looks around
two hundred years old. His son looks like he must be near one hundred and ninety-nie. Indian years are longer and harder even than dog years.
"Hey," I ask. "You guys need any change?"
"Yeah," red nose says. "A change of clothes, a change of underwear."
And we all laugh.
I pull out my wallet and give them a buck each. I don't feel generous or
guilty, just half-empty and all lonely in this city which would kill me as slowly
as it is killing these three cousins of mine.
"Thanks, brother," the Yakima son says and gives his dollar to his father.
"My dad is the responsible one."
"What's your name?" red nose asks me.
"Victor. What are your names?"
"I'm Moe," red nose says,"And these guys are Larry and Curly."
And we laugh.
I say goodbye with handshakes and walk down the waterfront, passing by white
tourists who don't care if they ever know my name. I walk all day, looking for
just one more kind face.

Sherman Alexie.........from The First Indian On The Moon