The Lover Of Maps

The Lover of Maps

She unfolds and folds me
directs me
to an exact place
on the reservation
where nothing is ever written down.
She tells me
our stories are maps
told on a scale
larger than can be held
by our clumsy hands.
Things (for an Indian) to Do in New York (City)


1.
Walk down the Avenue of the Americas
though it’s actually Sixth Avenue
and I mean walk right down the middle
of the Avenue of the Americas
and tell all of the cab drivers I love them
or walk down the middle of Wyckoff Street
in Brooklyn at three in the morning
waving my arms like a crazy man
because some New Yorker once told me
it will scare all of the muggers away
but I think it means those muggers
will just end up mugging an Indian
acting like a crazy man
but maybe I could make them laugh
and they’d leave me enough money
for another cannoli, cannoli, cannoli
or I might convince myself that I look more
like a mugger than one who is to be mugged
because I have dark skin, long hair
and those dark-skinned, long-haired muggers
will all nod their heads at me
whenever I walk by, brother to brother
but wait, everybody is a mugger
and that white man in a wool suit
just lifted my wallet
and disappeared down the Avenue
of the Americas, which, as we all know
by now, is actually Sixth Avenue
and lucky me, he took my throw-down
wallet, which only held a twenty
and a sepia photograph of Mister X.


2.
Read Ted Berrigan’s sonnets
and wonder how we are all alike
but still have absolutely nothing
in common. I stop bearded men
and beautiful women in the streets
and they’re all poets. Everybody
is bearded and beautiful. Everybody
is a poet. I roll a drunk over
in a doorway and he quotes
Robert Frost. My God, he’s home-
less and formalist. How much money
should I drop into his tin cup?


3.
The whole world does not belong
in any one place, but here we are
all of us gathered in Times Square
with guns drawn and teeth bared.
I want to find somebody to kill
because of their skin color. No.
I want to kill a busload of children
because of their parents’ religion
and I want to build a hate machine
in the middle of Times Square
and call it a piano. I want
to start a circus in Manhattan
and call it a church. I want to hail
a mounted policeman and call him God.


4.
What time is it? I stop
a passerby in this cruel city
and ask her. It’s 12:02 p.m.
she tells me and keeps
walking. She actually gave me
the correct time. Oh, the kindness
and I stop watch-wearer
after watch-wearer, asking
for the time and they all give it to me.
I could live here
forever. No, that’s not true
at all. I’m lying
because it’s nearly 1:34 p.m.
and I have three hours to kill
before the matinee show.


5.

There is nothing as sad as a bad guitar player
in the hotel room next door at some insane hour
moving his clumsy fingers from chord to chord
until you think, in those long pauses between
B flat and F, that he must be an Indian
adopted as a young child by a white family, and now
confused and desperate, has come to New York City
to become a rock star, but hocks his guitar
eventually for a bus ticket back home
to his white parents, who love him so much
they don’t say a word about his new braids
and they all travel to a powwow together
slightly embarrassed to find their feet tapping
along in an imperfect rhythm with the drums.


6.
I was looking for a happy ending
but instead found a refrigerator
abandoned on East Fifth Street.
Then I found a couch
a dining table with three chairs
and a microwave oven. I found
a lamp, a coffee table, and a television.
I found a perfect pair of shoes.


7.
I think how when I left the reservation
my entire world, which had been brown, became white
but this is New York City and everybody is brown
but this is America, too, and everybody is still
white, but then again, I know America is not white
exactly, but it is white inexactly, without
color, needing this or that blood to stain its hands.


8.
On some of these days
there would be too much to do
so I don’t even leave
the Brooklyn brownstone
and I’m frightened
because I’m an Indian
who knows the difference
between Monet and Manet
so I just watch TV
because I am an American
Indian and the walk to the subway
can break both of my hearts.


9.
On TV, more soccer riots in Europe.
There would be riots in American stadiums
during our particular games
if the people who had reason to riot
could pay the price for admission.


10.
But, America, I think how
your men will always find
a more effective way to kill.
No Indian would have ever invented
an automatic bow and arrow
but I love you still
in the way I have been taught
to love you:
with fear.


11.
So how is it possible
that I could fall in love
with every waitress
and waiter in Manhattan?
Stop. I’m not in love
with any of them.
It must be the food.
But they are gorgeous
though horrible at their jobs
so when they drop
the plates and cups
it still sounds like music.


12.

then I think to thank all of you
for Emily Dickinson and Walt Whitman
for the automobile and Orson Welles
for fluoride in the drinking water.


13.

Suddenly, there’s another Indian on the subway
sitting right beside me, surprise, there’s an Indian
on the subway, F Train from Brooklyn
to Manhattan, on a Monday afternoon, surprise
there is another Indian, I mean, another American
Indian sitting on the subway seat next to me—
really, in the seat right beside me, our legs touch
and I am convinced that she’s Indian, Native
American, Aboriginal, beneath her clothes
and she’s Indian in her clothes, and her clothes are Indian
because she’s wearing them. There’s an Indian
on the F Train all the way from Brooklyn
to Manhattan. She’s my wife, and she loves me,
she loves me, she loves me.
The Museum of Tolerance
has opened its doors
and, as agreed, we forgive all sins.
We check our coats
and regretfully remember
the twentieth century: War, war, war, war
followed closely by manned space flight.
I have the sudden urge to telephone old girlfriends and apologize!
This is the Museum of Tolerance: one room
with its one exhibit placed on a white satin pillow
which rests comfortably on an antique maple chair.
The exhibit: a small, red stone.
What does it mean? The debate begins simply enough
but adjectives and adverbs soon fill the room.
A man says, “If I am going to love somebody
then she must love me first.”
Flashbulbs, the whir of advancing film.
The Museum of Tolerance, thank God, is open all night
but nobody can agree on the price of admission.
Bob’s Coney Island
Let’s begin with this: America.
I want it all back
now, acre by acre, tonight. I want
some Indian to finally learn
to dance the Ghost Dance right
so that all of the salmon and buffalo return
and the white men are sent back home
to wake up in their favorite European cities.
I am not cruel.
Still, I hesitate
when Bob walks us around his Coney Island:
the Cyclone still running
the skeleton of the Thunderbolt
the Freak Show just a wall of photographs
the Parachute Drop
which has not been used in 30 years
but still looks like we could
tie a few ropes to the top (Why the hell not?) and drop
quickly down, spinning, unraveling
watching Bob’s Coney Island rise
from the ashes of the sad, old carnival
that has taken its place now, this carnival
that is so sad because, like Diane says
all carnivals are sad.
We drop to the ground, our knees buckle slightly
at impact. We turn to look at each other
with the kind of love and wonder
that only fear and the release of fear can create.
We climb to the top and parachute down
again and again, because there is an ocean
a few feet away, because Manhattan is just a moment
down the horizon, because there was a 13-year-old boy
who believed that Coney Island belonged to him
though we know that all we see
doesn’t really belong to anyone
but I’ll let Bob have a conditional lease
because I know finally
somebody will take care of this place
even if just in memory.
After the Trial of Hamlet, Chicago, 1994
Did Hamlet mean to kill Polonius? Diane and I sit at a table
with the rich, who have the luxury to discuss such things
over a veal dinner. The vegetables are beautiful! We have just come
from the mock Trial of Hamlet, which is more a fund-raiser
and social gathering, but we must render a verdict. I am here
because I wrote a book which nobody here has read, a book
that Diane reads because she loves me. My book has nothing
to do with Hamlet. My book is filled with reservation Indians.
Maybe my book has everything to do with Hamlet. The millionaire
next to me sets down one of his many forks to shake my hand.
He tells me the poor need the rich more than the rich need the poor.
Abigail Van Buren eats corn at the next table. I read this morning
she has always believed homosexuality is just as genetically determined
as heterosexuality. Finally. Somebody tells the truth. Dear Abby
can have all the corn she wants! I’ll pay. She wears a polka-dot dress
and is laughing loudly at something I know is not funny.
Did Hamlet really see his father’s ghost? Was there a ghost? Was Hamlet insane
or merely angry when he thrust his sword through
that curtain and killed Polonius? The millionaire tells me
taxicab drivers, shoe shine men, waiters, and waitresses exist
only because the rich, wearing shiny shoes, often need to be driven
to nice restaurants. A character actor walks by with a glass of wine.
I recognize him because I’m the type of guy who always recognizes
character actors. He knows that I recognize him but I cannot tell
if he wants me to recognize him. Perhaps he is afraid that I am
confusing him with another character actor who is more famous or less famous.
He might be worried that I will shout his name incorrectly
and loudly, transposing first and last names, randomly inserting
wild syllables that have nothing to do with his name.
Did Hamlet want to have sex with his mother Gertrude? Was Hamlet mad with
jealousy
because Claudius got to have sex with Gertrude? When is a king
more than a king? When is a king less than a king? Diane is beautiful.
She wears red lipstick which contrasts nicely with her brown skin.
We are the only Indians in Chicago! No, we are the only Indians
at the Trial of Hamlet. I hold her hand under the table, holding it
tightly until, of course, we have to separate so we can eat our food.
We need two hands to cut our veal. Yet Diane will not eat veal.
She only eats the beautiful vegetables. I eat the veal and feel guilty.
The millionaire tells me the rich would love a flat tax rate. He talks
about interest rates and capital gains, loss on investments
and trickle-down economics. He thinks he is smarter than me.
He probably is smarter than me, so I tell him insecurely that I wrote a book.
I know he will never read it. My book has nothing to do
with Polonius. My book is filled with reservation Indians. Maybe it has everything
to do with Polonius. A Supreme Court Justice
sits at the head table. He decides my life! He eats rapidly. I want to know how
he feels about treaty rights. I want to know if he feels
guilty about eating the veal. There is no doubt in my mind
the Supreme Court Justice recognizes the beauty of our vegetables.
Was Hamlet a man without logical alternatives? Did he resort
to a mindless, senseless violence? Were his actions those of a tired
and hateful man? Or those of a righteous son? The millionaire introduces his wife,
but she barely acknowledges our presence. Diane is more
gorgeous, though she grew up on reservations and once
sat in a tree for hours, wishing she had lighter skin. Diane wears
a scarf she bought for three dollars. I would ask her to marry me right
now, again, in this city where I asked her to marry me the first time.
But she already agreed to marry me then and has, in fact, married me.
Marriage causes us to do crazy things. She reads my books. I eat veal.
Was Hamlet guilty or not by reason of insanity for the murder of Polonius?
The millionaire tells me how happy he is to meet me. He wishes me
luck. He wants to know what I think of Hamlet’s case. He tells me Hamlet,
insane or not, is responsible for what he did. There is always something
beautiful in the world at any given moment. When I was poor I loved
the five-dollar bills I would unexpectedly find in coat pockets. When I feel
tired now, I can love the moon hanging over the old hotels of Chicago.
Diane and I walk out into the cold November air. We hail a taxi.
The driver is friendly, asks for our names, and Diane says, I’m Hamlet,
and this is Hamlet, my husband. The driver wants to know where we’re from
and which way we want to go. Home, we say, home.

Sherman Alexie

"Reprinted from SUMMER OF BLACK WIDOWS