Chapter One
Call me Zits.
Everybody calls me Zits.
That’s not my real name, of course. My real name isn’t
important.
This morning, I wake in a room I do not recognize.
I often wake in strange rooms. It’s what I do. The alarm
clock beeps at me. I know I didn’t set that thing. I always
set alarm clocks to play wake-up music. Something
good like the White Stripes or PJ Harvey or Yeah Yeah
Yeahs or Kanye West. Something to start your brain,
cook your guts, and get you angry and horny at the
same time. Sometimes I wake to my mother’s favorite
music, like Marvin Gaye or Blood, Sweat & Tears.
Yes, there used to be a band called Blood, Sweat &
Tears.
Isn’t that the most amazing name for a rock band you
ever heard? When it comes right down to it, everything
in the world is about blood, sweat, and tears. So that name
is perfect. No, it’s almost perfect. The perfect name would
be Blood, Sweat, Tears & Come, but I wonder if people
would buy a CD by a band named so graphically.
All of the guys in Blood, Sweat & Tears had long
stringy hair and greasy beards and bloodshot eyes. They
were ugly. Back in the seventies, all of the rocks stars
were ugly. And they were great musicians. Do ugly guys
compensate for their ugliness by becoming great guitar
players? Or do certain guitars choose their homely
players like Excalibur chose Lancelot? I wish I lived back
in the seventies. As ugly as I am, I might have been the
biggest rock star in the world.
I love Blood, Sweat & Tears because they’re ugly and
because they rock hard. And because they were my
mother’s favorite rock band. Her favorite song was the
one called “I Love You More Than You’ll Ever Know.”
She used to sing that to me when I was a baby. I remember
her singing it to me. I know I’m not supposed
to remember it. But I do.
My memory is strange that way. I often remember
people I’ve never met and events and places I’ve never
seen.
I don’t think I’m some mystical bastard. I just think
I pay attention to the details.
I remember my mother and father slow-dancing to
that Blood, Sweat & Tears song. I remember how my
father whisper-sang “I Love You More Than You’ll Ever
Know” to my mother. I remember how they conceived
me that night. Okay, I don’t exactly remember it. I
can’t see my mother and father naked in bed, but I can
feel a lightning ball rebound off my soul whenever I
think about it.
I figure my father’s sperm and my mother’s egg were
equal parts electricity and water.
So, yes, I was created because of that bloody, sweaty,
tearful, and sex-soaked song. And so my mother always
sang it to me to celebrate my creation.
My mother loved me more than any of you will ever
know.
But I don’t like to think about my mother or father.
Especially this early in the morning. And my alarm clock
isn’t playing Blood, Sweat & Tears or any other kind of
music, so I punch it quiet, get out of bed, walk into the
strange pink bathroom, and pee for three minutes.
I keep trying to figure out where I am, and then I
remember: This is my new foster home.
I can hear my new foster family bumping around in
the other rooms. I don’t care about them. There are
more important things to think about, so I look in the
mirror and count the zits on my face.
One, two, three, four, all the way up to forty-seven.
Fourteen zits on my forehead. Twenty-one on my left
cheek. Six on my right cheek. Five on my chin. A huge
North Star zit shines brightly on the end of my nose.
I can’t even count the Milky Way on my back. There
are billions and billions of those pimple-stars. I bet I could
sell the rights to name each of them. Maybe I’ll stand at
a freeway exit and shout at all of those lonely commuters:
“Back zits for sale! Back zits for sale! Yes, you can purchase the
rights to name one of my back pimples! Give it as a birthday gift!
Buy one for your Valentine! Name one after your clear-skinned
and beautiful teenage daughter to remind her how lucky she is!”
The skin doctor tells me I have six months to live.
I’m exaggerating. I don’t have a skin doctor and you
can’t actually die of zits. But you can die of shame. And,
trust me, my zit-shame is killing me.
I’m dying from about ninety-nine kinds of shame.
I’m ashamed of being fifteen years old. And being tall.
And skinny. And ugly.
I’m ashamed that I look like a bag of zits tied to a
broomstick.
I wonder if loneliness causes acne. I wonder if being
Indian causes acne.
My father was an Indian. From this or that tribe. From
this or that reservation. I never knew him, but I have
a photograph of his acne-blasted face. I’ve inherited his
ruined complexion and black hair and big Indian nose.
My father was a drunk, too, more in love with beer
and vodka than with my mother and me.
He vanished like a cruel magician about two minutes
after I was born.
My mother died of breast cancer when I was six. I remember
a few things about her. Her voice, her red hair,
and the way she raised one eyebrow when she laughed.
I sometimes wish she’d died when I was younger so I
wouldn’t remember her at all.
I remember her green eyes.
She was a white woman. Irish, I guess. I have a photograph
of her, too, and she is gorgeous. My eyes are
green, like hers, but I’m not pretty. I wish I looked more
like her.
Yes, I am Irish and Indian, which would be the coolest
blend in the world if my parents were around to teach
me how to be Irish and Indian. But they’re not here and
haven’t been for years, so I’m not really Irish or Indian.
I’m a blank sky, a human solar eclipse.
A social worker, a woman who wore blue eyeglasses
with a green stripe and perfect black pants, once told
me that I had never developed a sense of citizenship.
“It’s all in the small ceremonies,” she said. “For instance,
do you know how to knot a necktie?”
“No,” I said.
“Do you know how to shine a pair of shoes?”
“No,” I said.
“When you walk around this city, how many men do
you see wearing neckties and shiny shoes?”
“A lot, I guess.”
“Hundreds of men, right?”
“Probably.”
“Thousands in Seattle, thousands in other cities, hundreds
of thousands in the country.”
“So what?”
“So what do you think it means for you?”
She stared at me with sympathy. I hate sympathy.
“This is bullshit,” I said.
“What is bullshit?” she said.
I laughed at her. I hate it when social workers curse
to prove how connected they are to youth and street
culture.
“You’re a fucking dreamer,” I said to her. “What do
you think this is, the nineteen-fifties or something? Do
you really think I’d become some kind of asshole citizen
if I wore a tie and shiny shoes?”
“It would help,” she said.
“Whatever.”
She leaned close to me. She smelled like cigarettes and
cinnamon gum.
“Here’s the thing,” she said. “You’ve never learned
how to be a fully realized human being.”
Jesus, what kind of overeducated bitch says that to a
kid?
She made me sound like I was raised by wolves when,
in fact, I haven’t been raised by anybody.
No, that’s not true.
I’ve been partially raised by too many people.
I’ve lived in twenty different foster homes and attended
twenty-two different schools. I own only two pairs of pants
and three shirts and four pairs of underwear and one baseball
hat and three pairs of socks and three paperback novels
(Grapes of Wrath, Winter in the Blood, and The Dead Zone)
and the photographs of my mother and father.
My entire life fits into one small backpack.
I don’t know any other Native Americans, except the
homeless Indians who wander around downtown Seattle.
I like to run away from my foster homes and get drunk
with those street Indians. Yeah, I’m a drunk, just like my
father. I’m a good drunk, too. Gifted, you might say. I can
out drink any of those homeless Indians and remain on
my feet and still tell my stories. Those street Indians enjoy
my company. I’m good at begging. I make good coin and
buy whiskey and beer for all of us to drink.
Of course, those wandering Indians are not the only
Indians in the world, but they’re the only ones who pay
attention to me.
The rich and educated Indians don’t give a shit about
me. They pretend I don’t exist. They say, The drunken Indian
is just a racist cartoon. They say, The lonely Indian is
just a ghost in a ghost story.
I wish I could learn how to hate those rich Indians.
I wish I could ignore them. But I want them to pay attention
to me. I want everybody to pay attention to me.
So I shoplift candy and food and magazines and cigarettes
and books and CDs and anything that can fit in
my pockets. The police always catch me and put me in
juvenile jail.
I get into arguments and fistfights with everybody.
I get so angry that I go blind and deaf and mute.
I like to start fires. And I’m ashamed that I’m a fire starter.
I’m ashamed of everything, and I’m ashamed of being
ashamed.
This morning, as I count my zits in the mirror, I’m
ashamed that I can’t remember the names of my new
foster mother and father.
I’ve only been living here in this strange house, with
its strange pink bathroom, for two days.
I can’t remember the names of my new foster parents’
two real kids, either, or the names of the other five
foster kids.
When it comes to foster parents, there are only two
kinds: the good but messy people who are trying to help
kids or the absolute welfare vultures who like to cash
government checks every month.
It’s easy to tell what kind of people my latest foster
parents are. Their real kids have new shoes; the foster
kids are wearing crap shoes.
But who cares, right? It’s not like I’m going to be here
much longer. I’m never in any one place long enough
to care.
There’s this law called the Indian Child Welfare Act
that’s supposed to protect half-breed orphans like me. I’m
only supposed to be placed with Indian foster parents
and families. But I’m not an official Indian. My Indian
daddy gave me his looks, but he was never legally established
as my father.
Since I’m not a legal Indian, the government can put
me wherever they want. So they put me with anybody
who will take me. Mostly they’re white people. I suppose
that makes sense. I am half white. And it’s not like
any of this makes any difference. I’ve had two Indian
foster fathers, and they were bigger jerks than any of
my eighteen white foster fathers.
Of course, I assumed those Indian men would automatically
be better fathers to me than any white guy,
but I was wrong.
I had this one Indian foster daddy, Edgar, who was great
at the beginning. He was a jock, a muscular machine. He
took me to Seahawks games. We played touch football
and one-on-one hoops in the park. He bought me books.
One time, he gave me this amazing remote control
airplane, an F-15 fighter jet. I loved that thing. It was
the most amazing gift I’d ever received. It must have cost
three hundred dollars. Edgar bought one for himself, too,
and we drove out to this remote airplane field in the
Cascade Mountain foothills.
“I’ve been racing planes for years,” Edgar said. “So
don’t take it too hard if you lose, okay?”
“Okay,” I said, but I didn’t plan on losing.
We piloted our planes around this circular course
marked by flags and landed them on a grassy runway.
I beat him three races in a row.
“Wow,” he said. “Beginner’s luck is something else,
huh?”
“I guess,” I said.
I could tell he was getting mad. And if I were a smarter
kid or a diplomat, I would have let him win the next race.
But I couldn’t do that. Who wants to lose?
“There must be something wrong with my plane,”
Edgar said.
“You want to switch?” I said.
“Yeah.”
So we switched planes and I beat him two more times,
landing my plane in the grass more quickly and smoothly
than he ever would.
“There’s something wrong with this plane, too,” Edgar
said.
“Yeah, the pilot,” I said.
Edgar took my remote control out of my hands, taxied
my plane down the runway, lifted it into the air, and
flew it full speed into a tree.
Crash.
I ran over to the plane, picked it up, and stared at the
damage. One wing was broken; the rudder was bent; the
miniature pilot was missing his head. I was scared and sad.
But I couldn’t show it. I’d always been punished for showing
emotion. It’s best to stay as remote as those airplanes.
“What do you think of that?” Edgar asked, and lippointed
at the wreck in my hands.
“This is your plane,” I said.
Yes, Edgar had forgotten we’d switched planes. But
I suppose it didn’t matter because he flew the other
plane into a tree, too.
Crash.
He didn’t yell or cuss or get all crazy. Edgar calmly
destroyed six hundred dollars’ worth of model airplane.
Crash, crash.
If we’d had twenty airplanes, Edgar would have
crashed all of them, too.
So who cares if Edgar was an Indian or not? His Indian
identity was completely secondary to his primary
identity as a plane-crashing asshole.
Yes, that’s my life, a series of cruel bastards and airplane
crashes. Twenty little airplane crashes. I am a flaming
jet, crashing into each new foster family.
And here I am, for the twenty-first time, crashing into
a strange pink bathroom in a strange house in a strange
world, and all I can do is count my zits. How lame. The
only positive thing I can do is change their name. Maybe
I’ll start calling them spots, like the British do. That almost
makes zits sound harmless, doesn’t it?
I can hear my new foster family. I don’t want to see
them. I wish I could stay in this room forever. I wish
I had a television in my bedroom. I’ve never met any
person who is as interesting as a good TV show.
I never understood the people who think that TV is
bad for you. I guess they’ve never seen the Discovery
Channel. You can learn science, history, geography, and
politics from TV. If you want to find some faith in
human beings, just watch one episode of Storm Stories
on the Weather Channel, and you’ll see heroic people
risk their lives to save strangers.
I don’t understand human beings. I don’t understand
the people who risk their lives to save strangers. I wish
I knew people like that.
Everything I know about Indians (and I could easily
beat 99 percent of the world in a Native American
version of Trivial Pursuit) I’ve learned from television.
I know about famous chiefs, broken treaties, the political
activism of the 1960s and 1970s, and the Indian
wars of the nineteenth century.
I know all this stuff because it makes me feel more
like a real Indian. Maybe I can’t live like an Indian, but
I can learn how real Indians used to live and how they’re
supposed to live now.
Jesus, I’m pathetic. I make it sound like I’m just a television
addict. But I’m also addicted to books. And I
know there has never been a human being or a television
show, no matter how great, that could measure
up to a great book.
But there are no books in this bathroom or in my
bedroom, and I’ve already read the books in my backpack
a hundred times each. So I’m living a new life
without new books.
I bet you a million dollars there are less than five
books in this whole house. What kind of life can you
have in a house without books?
I give up counting my spots, walk into the kitchen,
and look at a room full of strangers.
“Good morning,” the foster mother says. “Do you
want a bowl of cornflakes?”
She’s a short fat woman. If this were a fairy tale, she’d
be the evil stepmother who eats children. This isn’t a
fairy tale, so she’s just a loser who gorges on food like
alcoholics drink booze.
The foster father grunts from behind his newspaper.
Foster fathers like to grunt and read newspapers. If I had
to describe this guy to a police sketch artist, I’d say he
looks like the sports section with a bad haircut.
“Excuse me,” the foster mother says to me. “I said
good morning.”
I don’t say anything.
“Hey, young man,” the foster mother says. “We have
rules around here. And rule number one is be nice.”
“Whatever,” I say.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from Flight
by Sherman Alexie
Copyright © 2007 by Sherman Alexie.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Black Cat
Copyright © 2007
Sherman Alexie
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-8021-7037-8
