The Memory Favorite

The Memory Favorite

God, I really loved that car-even though it already had a messed up windshield;and even though I knew I wouldn't be having it for too long because it was getting too old,and I had no place for a 13- year-old 1960 Pontiac Star Chief with big fins, a spacious back seat to sleep in, and a huge trunk to store my books, LP's, and and backpack full of outdoor gear. It was sky blue-just like Paul Newman's famous VW bug racing car and Montana's famous “big sky.” My friend Andy had told me there should be “45,000 more miles on the engine and 10,000 more miles on the tranny before they break down;”so the $200 I was giving him “ should get you” the 3,000 miles from Libby to some town on the east coast where I could resell it for $200 to someone who wants a big, old “ghettomobile” just like this one.

Anyway, after 500- some miles of driving, I was outside of Billings and wanting someone to talk to;

so I stopped for the next hitch-hiker I saw after buying gas and another over-sugared coffee. The cheaply clad guy had so much trouble opening the door and seating himself properly that it didn't surprise me when he immediately took a couple of slugs from a Boone's Farm wine bottle before offering me some and quickly pulling the bottle back before I could get any. Then he grumbled “ I got no money for gas, and I need to sleep until we get down to the rez; but if you see another Indian like me thumbing, pick him up because it might be my cousin, and he might have money.” He seemingly passed out before I could tell him I wasn't going to have two hitch-hikers in my car at the same time, and I was hoping I wouldn't have to drag him out of my car when we did get down to Crow Agency.

I don't know; maybe he never was asleep; but within a few minutes he was sipping on the wine bottle again before telling me not to pick up another hitch-hiker , if I saw one because “ it might not be my cousin, and if it's a Cheyenne they'll beat me up just because I'm a Crow.” Trying to dissuade this thinking by reminding him that this is my car only brought on talk of how “Cheyennes always beat on us Crows” and that the “white people running this country encouraged that by putting the Crow and the Northern Cheyenne Reservations right next to each other here in Montana.”

When I tried to point out to him that to me as a white person, it had always seemed the Crows were favored over most tribes because they provided so many scouts and trackers to the cavalry-some of whom even with the cavalry at Little Bighorn and other battles- he decompensated into a drunken crying jag. “White guy,' he sobbed out; “let me explain why you are so wrong about that. We Crows are like the bottom tribe in the tribal barrel. Cheyennes, Sioux, Blackfeet,Piegans, Shoshones, Crees from Canada they all picked on us; so we helped the Cavalry just to get on somebody's, anybody's side. We didn't even bother to correct the French when they named us Crows by mistake instead of Magpies which most of our clothes and decorations are supposed to look like. When you're a Crow like I am, you have no self-respect. Would you like living in a town named for Custer's favorite marching song?” And then he really did pass out so I pulled into a roadside rest area to think a bit and grab a nap myself.

I awoke to him shaking me and hearing “ Hey white guy!Wake up! You got'ta get me down to the agency so I can tell 'em where I've been, and ask 'em about going down to Sheridan with you to sell this car to my cousin. I told you he's got money right now; and he won't care that there's a rock stuck in the car's windshield. Come to think of it white guy; why is that rock stuck in your windshield?”

As my head started to come together better, I told him,”Look, dude. I'm not your driver;and you can stop calling me “white guy”;or I'll be leaving you here, and you can start thumbing again. And I'm not gonna sell this car until it gets me to the east coast where I'll sell it to some black guy from a slum who'll make it a 'ghettomobile' out of it.”

“But that'll ruin it!” he quickly retorted.”This is a PONTIAC STAR CHIEF! It should belong to a red man on a rez somewhere.”

“No, I'm not selling it now. The more I drive it, the better I like it. And, if you Indians think so much of it, why did those Flathead teenage punks up at Big Arm throw rocks at it when I drove by them? I could have crashed but I was too afraid to stop so I kept I sped up and kept on driving.”

“Flathead punks up at Big Arm? White guy, that explains it-you've got to learn what's going on. The Flatheads are really into A.I. M. right now; almost as much as the Sioux. They're feeling strong because some judge said they can control the whole bottom end of Flathead Lake. He said they can sell licenses and collect fees for boats, hunting, fishing, and I don't know how much other stuff. But you should have gone back to Big Arm and got the tribal cop.”

“ But being a white man, I wasn't sure how the tribal police would receive me. I didn't think they'd do much to kids from their tribe- punks or not.”

“You mean you felt like an Indian thinking he'd waste his time asking the white county mounties to go after some A-hole white guy.”

“You know, you're right about that. Let me get you down to the agency, and if they'll let you go, I'll bring down to Sheridan. But no, I'm Not selling this car to your cousin. It's already becoming a memory favorite.”