Flight by Sherman Alexie Read Free Book Online Page B

yet.
    And it’s hotter than the pizza cheese that gets stuck to the roof of your mouth and burns you so bad you can have one of those skin flaps hanging down.
    Imagine what this smells like.
    Justice never said anything about the smell of old-time Indians. I never read anything about this smell. I never saw a television show that mentioned it.
    I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but it smells like the Devil dropped a shit right here in the middle of this camp.
    But you know what’s really crazy? I seem to be the only one bothered by the stench. Everybody else is smiling and gossiping and singing and laughing and living their way-cool old-time Indian lives. None of them are gagging and covering their noses like me.
    And then I remember how some people’s houses just smell funny. They don’t stink. Not really. But they smell different. A few times in my life, I walked into new foster homes and knew I’d never be able to live there because of the strange smell.
    Everybody’s house smells different. Some of them smell good, most of them just smell different, and a few of them stink.
    So this huge village is like one of those stink houses. And the people who live here don’t notice the stink.
    People smell different, too. Sometimes you meet people and you think they’re nice and decent, and it seems like you might be friends. But you get closer to them and they stink. They smell like rotten fish or dead raccoons or something. And you just have to run away.
    Later, you mention the bad smell to your other friends and they say they didn’t smell anything different. That stink is reserved especially for you.
    But, hey, it works the other way, too. Sometimes you meet a person, and you catch the scent and it’s like you’ve smelled a garden in Heaven, because all you want to do is follow that person around and breathe in for the rest of your life.
    And later you mention this great scent to your other friends, and they say they didn’t smell anything different.
    I remember this one time, when I was taking a video class at a special program for homeless kids in Seattle. I was learning how to use a computer to edit movies. And the teacher—her name was Sue—she smelled exactly like Campbell’s vegetable soup.
    Now I never thought the smell of Campbell’s vegetable soup was sexy. I always liked it, but it didn’t get me all hormonal or anything. But when I smelled Sue, I began to think that Campbell’s vegetable soup might be the sexiest thing in the world.
    Of course, being young and stupid and in love, I told Sue that she smelled exactly like Campbell’s vegetable soup. She just laughed at me.
    But, wait, why am I talking about soup? Maybe it’s just safer and funnier to think about soup and sexy women named Sue than it is to find yourself transported to an old-time Indian camp.
    And then I look down at myself and realize that I’m an old-time Indian kid, maybe twelve or thirteen years old. I’m thin and muscular, and the only thing I’m wearing is a loincloth.
    I get shy for a second because I’m almost naked. But then I realize that every boy and man in the camp is wearing only a loincloth. And a few of the women and girls are pretty much naked, too.
    Then I solve a mystery: I look under my loincloth.
    Okay. I know for sure now that Indians didn’t have underwear beneath their loincloths.
    Then I see this huge Indian guy, like the Arnold Schwarzenegger of Indian warriors, walking toward me. He gets closer and closer. He’s fierce. His face and body are war-painted in ten different colors, he’s carrying this epic tomahawk, and I get scared. I wonder if he’s magic. Maybe he knows I’m not really this old-time Indian boy. Maybe he can feel that I’m just borrowing this body.
    I want to run but I’m frozen. Where would I run to anyway? When you’re trying to escape from Indians, it’s probably best if you don’t start your escape from inside their huge camp.
    But just when I think the warrior guy is going