Me and the Indians
It was 1970-something. I was still a minor, but barely, so I'm guessing I was 16, which would make it 1970 exactly. I was a runaway - again. I was staying at an apartment building in Wrigleyville where my friend's father lived. I was staying on the roof because he didn't want me inside. No, this isn't Elliott redux. I was a runaway, yes. And sleeping on a roof - in Chicago. But this is about Indians. It just happened to start on a roof.
It was spring or summer and R -, whose father's roof I'd been sleeping on, and I were walking along the lakefront near Addison when we saw a man sitting on a bench. He was bent over, his head almost on his lap. As we got closer he looked up and seeing us, said, "Can you help me."
I didn't know he was an Indian. I don't know if I'd ever seen an Indian before, except in movies, and maybe once on a family vacation out west. This Indian didn't look very healthy. I wanted to keep walking. Then R - said, "What's the matter?"
"I need your coat," the Indian said.
He meant my coat. He was looking at me and the fringed leather coat my mother had given me for Christmas. "I've been shot," he said.
I didn't see any blood. Not then and not later. Maybe he was shot, but I never saw the proof.
"I gotta get back to the Nike base," the Indian said. "They can help me over there."
I recalled hearing something about a group of Indians taking over the old Nike missile base near Belmont Harbor. It had been in the news. I probably heard it on the radio, or seen a headline in a newspaper box.
"Give 'em your coat," R - said.
I wanted to say, Are you nuts? Give 'em your coat. But R - wasn't wearing a coat. It was too warm for a coat. Unless you liked the look of the one your mother had given you for Christmas. They were waiting, R - and the Indian. Both of them looking at me. I think the Indian smiled.
R- took a step to the side and motioned me over. "Come on," he said. "He's an Indian. We'll get it back."
I gave the Indian my coat and we walked with him toward the harbor. As we got closer we saw the crowd that had gathered. There were Chicago cop cars and Cook County cop cars and there were vans from the local television stations. It looked like the parking lot at a rock concert or Bears game. Cops waiting for trouble to start.
But these cops couldn't get on the base. It was federal land and not their jurisdiction. It was a standoff.
"Listen," the Indian said. "When we get to the gate tell the guy you're Onieda."
"Oneida?"
"Right. Tell him you're from Wisconsin."
Well, that part was true. I was born in Wisconsin. But I didn't look Indian. R - maybe, he was half Puerto Rican, maybe he could pass. But I was white, very white, except for my hair which I had dyed pitch black (trying to disguise myself because I was a runaway? because I liked the look? I don't remember).
There was a line of people waiting to pass through the gate where a couple of Indians stood guard holding baseball bats. I tried to keep my head down, not catch the eye of a cop. Under my breath I repeated, Oneida, Onieda and then we were at the gate and R - said Oneida and I said Oneida and we were in.
I don't remember much of what happened that day. I don't think we talked to too many Indians. I think we kept to ourselves. What I do remember is sleeping on the concrete floor of a building and I remember being woken up early in the morning. R - shaking my shoulder, saying, "Come on, we gotta go." Later I found out that some Indian who told R - he was a chief tried to put his hand down his pants. Chief or not, R - thought it time to go.
And the Indian who had my coat? Never saw him again. He disappeared as soon as we got inside. He disappeared and my coat disappeared. When we left the base that morning the crowd was smaller but the cops were still there and the television people were still there. That afternoon my mother received a call from a neighbor. "Your son," she told my mother. "I think I saw him on the news." My mother, being my mother, didn't believe her. When I finally returned home she didn't believe my story about the coat either.
It was spring or summer and R -, whose father's roof I'd been sleeping on, and I were walking along the lakefront near Addison when we saw a man sitting on a bench. He was bent over, his head almost on his lap. As we got closer he looked up and seeing us, said, "Can you help me."
I didn't know he was an Indian. I don't know if I'd ever seen an Indian before, except in movies, and maybe once on a family vacation out west. This Indian didn't look very healthy. I wanted to keep walking. Then R - said, "What's the matter?"
"I need your coat," the Indian said.
He meant my coat. He was looking at me and the fringed leather coat my mother had given me for Christmas. "I've been shot," he said.
I didn't see any blood. Not then and not later. Maybe he was shot, but I never saw the proof.
"I gotta get back to the Nike base," the Indian said. "They can help me over there."
I recalled hearing something about a group of Indians taking over the old Nike missile base near Belmont Harbor. It had been in the news. I probably heard it on the radio, or seen a headline in a newspaper box.
"Give 'em your coat," R - said.
I wanted to say, Are you nuts? Give 'em your coat. But R - wasn't wearing a coat. It was too warm for a coat. Unless you liked the look of the one your mother had given you for Christmas. They were waiting, R - and the Indian. Both of them looking at me. I think the Indian smiled.
R- took a step to the side and motioned me over. "Come on," he said. "He's an Indian. We'll get it back."
I gave the Indian my coat and we walked with him toward the harbor. As we got closer we saw the crowd that had gathered. There were Chicago cop cars and Cook County cop cars and there were vans from the local television stations. It looked like the parking lot at a rock concert or Bears game. Cops waiting for trouble to start.
But these cops couldn't get on the base. It was federal land and not their jurisdiction. It was a standoff.
"Listen," the Indian said. "When we get to the gate tell the guy you're Onieda."
"Oneida?"
"Right. Tell him you're from Wisconsin."
Well, that part was true. I was born in Wisconsin. But I didn't look Indian. R - maybe, he was half Puerto Rican, maybe he could pass. But I was white, very white, except for my hair which I had dyed pitch black (trying to disguise myself because I was a runaway? because I liked the look? I don't remember).
There was a line of people waiting to pass through the gate where a couple of Indians stood guard holding baseball bats. I tried to keep my head down, not catch the eye of a cop. Under my breath I repeated, Oneida, Onieda and then we were at the gate and R - said Oneida and I said Oneida and we were in.
I don't remember much of what happened that day. I don't think we talked to too many Indians. I think we kept to ourselves. What I do remember is sleeping on the concrete floor of a building and I remember being woken up early in the morning. R - shaking my shoulder, saying, "Come on, we gotta go." Later I found out that some Indian who told R - he was a chief tried to put his hand down his pants. Chief or not, R - thought it time to go.
And the Indian who had my coat? Never saw him again. He disappeared as soon as we got inside. He disappeared and my coat disappeared. When we left the base that morning the crowd was smaller but the cops were still there and the television people were still there. That afternoon my mother received a call from a neighbor. "Your son," she told my mother. "I think I saw him on the news." My mother, being my mother, didn't believe her. When I finally returned home she didn't believe my story about the coat either.
posted by Philip Dean Brown at 1:58 PM
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