TUESDAY LUNCH

I was an enterprising twelve-year-old in the spring of 1959. I’d just bought a lawnmower with the profits I’d made trapping muskrats and beaver that winter. One hot July morning I spent six hours mowing lawns in the town next to our reservation, and I had four dollars in my pocket for my efforts. After I was done, I remember looking down at my sneakers and seeing that the juices of the dewy grass had turned them green. Even though I smelled like gasoline and fresh-cut grass, my work was done for the day and now my stomach was growling. After parking my mower on the café lawn near the big front windows, I made sure that the bungee cord holding the gas can to the deck was still secure. After double-checking that my eight quarters and two-dollar bills hadn’t suddenly vanished from my small, beaded change purse, I walked up to the door and peered in at the clock. It was 2:10 in the afternoon. Next, I looked at the large, hand-printed sign in the window, which read:

WE SERVE INDIANS HERE MONDAYS TO THURSDAYS FROM 2 TO 4 PM

Good! I was within the time frame when I could get served. Pushed by the slight breeze coming from the south, the oval sign hanging by chains overhead made an eerie creaking sound as it swayed. Dabs of rust pocketed the white background of the sign, while faded blue lettering seeped through the patina to silently announce “Judi’s Café.” The guy who owned the place was too cheap to change the sign. Judi was a jewel of a woman. When I opened the door, the entrance bell rang and I hurriedly clambered towards a booth. From this vantage point, I could watch over my mower and still see the soft pine lunch counter, which was lined with eight stools. They were chrome with red leather seats, which matched the booths. I was the only customer in the place. The owner, who we called the “Toothless Wonder”, came over and growled, “What do you want today, Buck?” “Can I have a hot dog and fries?” I answered. “Yep, if you have the money to pay ahead of time. You know the rules, Injuns pay up front!” I took one dollar and twenty-five cents out of my pocket. When I gave it to him I said, “I also want a Coke and a banana split.” He wiped his nose with his apron. “Comin’ right up, Injun Boy.” I glanced out the window, keeping a close eye on my lawnmower. Announced by the bell on the door, a Native guy who I’d never seen before walked into the restaurant and sat on the end stool near the cash register. His shorts revealed a tattoo of two feathers on his left calf, and he wore a tee shirt that said “Warrior” on it. Huge biceps rippled when he moved his arms. His hair was cropped in a brush cut, which signalled his residential school upbringing. He looked Blackfoot. There was no meanness in his eyes, just a sense of purpose. A roll of duct tape, a hatchet and a knife hung from his belt. The owner came over and said, “I’ve never seen you before, and I know all the Injuns around here. What do you want?” “I had some business in town and now I’m just waiting for the 3:04 eastbound train. I’ll have two cheeseburgers and a Fanta orange.” “Money up front, Red Man.” As the guest paid with a two-dollar bill, he looked the Toothless Wonder square in the face and smiled. My food came along with five cents change, which I put in the jukebox to play my favourite song: “Lonely Teardrops”by Jackie Wilson. The food was only supposed to cost a dollar ten,so clearly, the scumbag had kept a dime for himself. The hot dog had mustard and onions on it, and I put a big dab of ketchup on my plate to dip my dog and fries into it. The food calmed my nerves, even though I had to keep wiping the mustard from my face as it dribbled down my chin. I loved onions, and whenever one fell from the bun I’d stuff it back into my mouth with my fingers. It irritated me that my hands were dirty, but I didn’t have any choice. The Toothless Wonder wouldn’t let Indians use his washroom to wash up or to pee. After finishing my dog and fries, I washed it all down with an ice-cold Coke. When he brought me my banana split, I looked at the clock again and saw that it was now 2:31 p.m. The bell above the door rang again, and in walked a tall Native woman dressed in shorts and a tank top. She had a tattoo like the Blackfoot man, except it was on her right shoulder. She looked Anishinaabe, but not from around here. Her hair also had the tell-tale residential school cut. Two knives hung from her waist, one on each hip. As she walked by me, I caught a whiff of her lilac perfume, which was soft and spring-like. She sat three stools down from the Blackfoot man. “Well, Pocahontas, what can I do you for?” sneered the Toothless Wonder. “A ginger ale. I have to catch the 3:04 train and haven’t got time to eat.” “Money up front, Injun Girl!” She tossed him a dime and smiled, then turned and looked out the window as a small funeral procession passed. All of the people were Native. The men were solemn and the women were sobbing and wailing. The Native woman turned, looked the Toothless Wonder in the face, and said, “Who died?’ “Some Injun girl hung herself.” “Hmm, I heard that she was the third one in a year-and-a-half,” she replied sharply, “and that they all worked for you at one time.” “Coincidence,” he replied. “Yeah,” I muttered to myself. Lisa Beaver had told me what happened here last fall. She was so ashamed. The sound of duct tape being torn from its roll snapped my attention back to the counter. The Blackfoot man suddenly stood up, grabbed the Toothless Wonder by the head, and wrapped the strip of duct tape around his mouth in three quick turns. The woman then grabbed his wrists in a vice-like grip and laid them flat on the pine counter. Simultaneously, the Blackfoot man pushed his back against the café owner, pinning him against the counter so he couldn’t move. He slipped his knife from its sheaf and laid it on the burner where the hotdogs simmered in a pot of boiling water. He then turned and reached around the man with both arms and held his hands flat on the counter. All the while, the Toothless Wonder’sfrantic screams were muffled by the gag of duct tape. I watched as the woman quickly whipped out her knives and drove them into the Toothless Wonder’s flattened hands, effectively pinning them to the counter. The Blackfoot warrior then swung his hatchet twice in quick succession, cutting off both of the owner’s thumbs with the swiftness of a hawk diving for a rabbit. Blood immediately spurted all over the counter. The Blackfoot warrior then retrieved his red-hot knife and cauterized the stumps where the man’s thumbs had been, and also around the two knife-blade wounds. This seemed to stop the bleeding. The Toothless Wonder looked like he was going to pass out, so the Blackfoot man took a cold pail of water and doused him thoroughly. The woman then grabbed the man’s sopping-wet head in her hands, pulled him close, and hissed a dire warning. “Listen carefully to me. We know that you raped those three dead girls while they worked for you. We also know that they never reported it to the law because it would be an Indian’s word against a white man’s word. Today you lost your thumbs, but if we ever, ever hear anything about you again, we’ll take more than just a few fingers. Oh, and be sure to tell the law that this was an accident. Your life depends on it.” The Blackfoot warrior handed the woman a wet dishtowel and she wiped the blood from her hands. I heard the sound of the train whistle as it pulled into the station and looked at the clock. It was 3:03; the train was a minute early. As the two walked out of the restaurant, the Warrior nodded at me. After watching them board the eastbound train, I went to the bathroom, took a pee, washed my hands and then walked out the front door. Grasping the handle of my lawnmower, I pushed it down the dusty street back to the reservation. One wheel was squeaking and I made a mental note to oil it as soon as I had the chance.