December 30, 2007
A Scene That Starts in a Bar.
“He-ey. Been a long time,” says the bartender without looking up from the glass he’s been polishing.
The newcomer takes a seat at the empty bar. “I can see you’re having a busy night.”
“Oh, yeah. The usual?”
“Nope.”
The bartender looks up. “You on duty, then?”
The other man nods and briefly fingers the brim of his hat.
The bartender nods at him. “You are allowed to take the hat off. No whiteys in here to mistake you for the Devil.”
The other man glares. He leaves the hat on.
After a pause, he asks, “So how have things been?”
It is not small talk. The bartender finally sets down his glass and runs his finger around the rim. It emits a horrific squeak.
The bartender, finally, shrugs. “Normal as can be. You know. People scrabble by out here, I see way too many of the townsfolk in my establishment on a regular basis, and, oh yeah, we have a witch.”
As if on cue, a weird air smothers the bar. The man in the hat rises slowly from the barstool. He follows the bartender’s stare to the back window.
Something not quite an animal darts off into the shadows.
“He’s heading towards someone’s house,” the bartender calls. The man in the hat waves an acknowledgement as he darts out the door.
The bartender goes back to polishing his glass. Half an hour, a scream, and a gunshot later, he puts it down for good this time and saunters outside.
The man in the hat stands over the skin-covered body of a man. Dead and in the open, the Yeenaaldlooshii looks like a drunken frat boy playing a ghoulish kind of dress-up. The bartender walks up and kicks at the last few shredded strips of decaying skin. They disintegrate in a foul-smelling puff of dust.
“You know, I’m almost insulted,” Coyote says.
The man in the hat holsters his gun, looking wry. “Like that’s unusual, First Scolder.”
Coyote laughs. “You’re off-duty now, right, soldier? Want that drink?”
The man shakes his head.
Coyote laughs again, a laugh with an edge. “Me neither.” And with a jaunty wave, he turns and heads away from the decrepit town, away from the skinwalker’s corpse, away from haunted things.
The buffalo soldier watches him go, and then, when he’s sure he’s out of Coyote’s sight, tips his hat.
Somewhere in the wilderness at the outskirts of town, a coyote laughs.
December 29, 2007
Two Tricksters.
Estimates of the total population of the Americas before European settlement range from 10 million to 112 million. This variance, like most things, is because of politics.
Coyote closes the bar early, when he can get away with it. It’s not like he’s in it for the money, after all. What need does a god have for money?
Or a coyote, come to think of it. There’s always trash cans, or sheep. Or rats.
It’s getting on eight, and there’s a lull. Usually, Coyote would have turned the lock by now.
For some reason, he stays open.
According to the United States Census Bureau, the total Native American and Alaska Native population, in 2006, was 4.5 million.
The total population of the United States, in that same year, exceeded 300 million.
When the frat boys take over the place, Coyote almost regrets staying open. In a vague way, he is almost surprised at himself. He is aware that once, he would have been egging them on.
But egging on drunken frat boys is not the wisest thing to do, and somewhere along the way, Coyote’s found some wisdom.
Perhaps he swallowed it, on one of those times he swallowed the sun.
The three-year average poverty rate for Native Americans is about 20 percent.
Coyote likes to set up his bars in college towns, despite the drunken frat boys. He also likes to set them up in places where politicians congregate, and tourist sites are a bonus.
He leaves shadows of himself behind to man them when he’s not there. He has a whole pack of shadows.
Fortunately, no one comes to his bars to talk to the bartender.
According to the Bureau of Justice, between 1992 and 1996, Native Americans were victims of violent crimes at 2.5 times the national rate. That’s about 1 violent crime for every 8 Native Americans aged 12 and older.
The drunken frat boys have been joined by drunken sorority sisters, and in an attempt to impress the ladies, have now started playing tricks with cheap lighters.
Coyote can’t really bring himself to care. He thinks he’s bored.
A few other patrons have wandered in. Most left once they realized the frat pack wasn’t; a couple have stayed to watch the fun. One or two are actually sitting at the bar, ignoring the world.
That’s fine by Coyote. He just pours the drinks.
The average amount of money a Native American loses as a victim of violence: $936. The national average? $878.
The total annual monetary loss for Native American victims of violent crimes is more than $35 million. More than $21 million from medical expenses alone.
A new patron sits down at the bar, half turning in his seat to eye the frat pack.
Something about him sets Coyote’s teeth on edge.
But Coyote is good at ignoring what bothers him. He asks the man in black what he wants.
The man says, “Anything.”
That’s too good an opening for Coyote to pass up.
Native Americans are arrested for alcohol violations at more than twice the national rate.
Twelve increasingly-bizarre concoctions later, the man is still not drunk. Or even tipsy. And even though he’s still watching the frat pack trash the place, Coyote would swear the man’s smirk is for him.
Coyote, on the other hand, is getting more and more frazzled. Not that that’s a rare occurrence.
Coyotes are the most abundant livestock predators in the western United States. They account for the majority of sheep, goat, and cattle losses.
One broad, dark hand snags Coyote’s wrist before he can take the man’s empty glass. The man is looking at him now, sidelong, and Coyote really wishes he weren’t.
But Coyote never could quit, ahead or not. He stares back.
The man, still smirking, lets him go and leaves.
Five minutes later, Coyote throws everyone out of the bar.
The coyote’s original range was primarily in western North America, but despite being extensively hunted, it has since extended its range to cover California, New England, and much of Canada.
In March 2006, a coyote was captured in Central Park.
It’s surprisingly easy to avoid humans, even in a busy city. It helps that humans don’t tend to look at things.
Then again, most creatures are pretty oblivious. That’s probably the only reason Coyote gets away with most of what he gets away with.
Still, there’s something weirdly transgressive about being a large predator lurking in a human city. Even if you’re not much inclined to eat humans.
There is only one recorded fatal coyote attack on a human – in 1981 in California, a toddler died on the operating table after being bitten.
It took Coyote twenty minutes to find his quarry.
You couldn’t really call him “prey”.
And when Coyote finds him, he wants to bash his head in.
He’s at the bar.
Historically, the jaguar’s range included much of the United States and South America, even ranging as far as Missouri. Its northern range has receded by 1000 kilometers, and its southern range by 2000 kilometers.
The jaguar now ranges, roughly, from Mexico to southern Brazil.
“What are you doing here, anyway? I was under the impression you were rather greatly diminshed not so long ago.”
A jaguar’s snarl is quite a distinctive sound. The hairs on Coyote’s neck stand up and try to arrange an orderly retreat.
“Leave that out of this,” the formerly-man-in-black commands. His voice sounds different as a jaguar. Coyote wonders if his voice sounds different now, too.
Despite the fact that every fiber of his being is trying to grow legs and run, Coyote says, “No.”
Languidly, the jaguar stretches in a silent, full-body sigh. He yawns, revealing impressive teeth.
Coyote never can leave well enough alone. “Why are you here?”
The jaguar looks him full in the face for the first time. “You know why.”
63% of all violent crimes reported by Native Americans were perpetrated by whites.
At least 32.5% of murders of Native Americans were committed by whites.
82% of rapes and sexual assaults on Native Americans were committed by whites.
Tezcatlipoca’s obsidian eyes are far too smug when Coyote yips his assent and turns away.
In 2004, wildlife officials in Arizona photographed jaguars in the southern part of the state.
