The Day Custer Got His Ass Iced

This account is not necessarily an accurate representation of current Cherokee customs, social mores, or religious practices. That said, stuff happens.

If you're looking for a quick thrill, you probably ought to make another selection. This one gets there, but not quickly.

As always, all participants in sexual activities are over 18 years of age.

*****

The day started off like many of my days did, with me sitting on a park bench outside the old Cherokee Nation Capitol building, a young Indian man, unemployed and unemployable, nursing a crippling hangover. I'd rather have been lying down, but they won't let you do that after sunrise. It was getting hot already, and the humidity was oppressive. It was beginning to feel like a good day to die.

I'd begged a ride into Tahlequah to go to a stomp dance the night before, a big one, and some of us even did a war dance in remembrance of the stupid arrogant Yo-neg that got himself and all his lackeys slaughtered by the Oglala and Lakota in 1876. When I and some of the other younger bucks got sick of dancing and trying to pick up unfriendly local girls, we put our money together and bought a few bottles of cheap liquor in town. No alcohol allowed at the stomp grounds, so we didn't go back, just sat in the Walmart parking lot and got smashed while making clever remarks in Cherokee about passing white girls. After I'd had a few turns with the bottle things got kind of hazy, and somehow I ended up on my favorite park bench to sleep it off. I'd hitch a ride back to my cabin on the river as soon as I could walk without puking, but for the moment I was just sitting and suffering. No need to get in a big-ass hurry about anything.

Pedestrian traffic started to pick up about the time I decided I might live to waste another day. Mostly white tourists, gawking at the Historic Capitol of the Cherokee Nation without the slightest clue as to what it represented or why it was here, a thousand miles from our homeland. I greeted a couple of elders in Cherokee, who nodded and went on their separate ways. And then she appeared, like an angel from heaven. For a moment I thought I was hallucinating.

She was tall and slender, exquisitely shaped, with long blond hair loose and rippling across her taut ass which was clad in form-fitting white walking shorts. A sleeveless low-cut silk blouse displayed her milk-white breasts, and her face was too beautiful to describe. I half expected to see ethereal wings mounted on her pretty shoulders, but if they were there they were invisible to mortals like me. She stopped and looked at the Capitol building, consulting a guide-book in one slender hand. I had to say something.

"Weeeee-sa," I crooned softly in Cherokee. The word translates to "cat" in English, but in one of the clever little puns we so enjoy, it also means "pussy" if you say it a certain way. I said it that way. Not the cleverest thing I ever said to break the ice, but I wasn't feeling too clever at the moment.

"Excuse me?" She shaded her blue eyes with one hand and looked at me.

"O-si-yo," I said, tilting my dance-hat to shade my bloodshot eyes. The hat was black felt with a beaded headband and dangling eagle feather.

"Oh! That mean's 'hello,' doesn't it?" she said brightly.

"Depends on your point of view, I guess. To me, 'hello' means 'O-si-yo.'"

She smiled and my heart stuttered. "Point taken. Are you Cherokee?"

"Mostly," I said. "When I'm allowed to be."

Her smile faltered. "Ummm, could I talk to you for a few minutes? I mean, if you're busy, I understand, but...?"

I sat there looking at her under my hat brim, delaying my response long enough to make her nervous. Better to stay silent and let people think you're a fool than to open your mouth and prove it, as my granny Wa-le-la used to say. "Ho-wa," I said finally. She took that as a positive, which it was, and took a step toward me.

"I'm here working on my Master's thesis," she began, "and I've visited a few Indian Reservations, and I had a couple of days left, so I thought I'd look around here too before flying out of Tulsa but what I really need to do is talk to somebody who lives here and the people at the Cherokee Heritage Center were really nice but it seems more like a tourist trap than anything else and so-" she stopped for breath, "I think what I really need to do is spend some time with somebody who really knows what it's like to live here, not a reservation I know but still not like regular America either-" deep breath again, and her face was flushing red with embarrassment, "So I guess you live here in Tahlequah and if you don't have to go to work or anything maybe you could...I'd pay you...if you wanted to be my tour guide for the day."

I considered this thoughtfully, not wanting to rush into anything. I could always use the money. Whatever she was planning to pay would be exactly how much I would have in my pocket today, since I was flat broke as usual. I wondered if she would give me part of it in advance so I could buy a pint of whiskey. The thought of walking around Tahlequah in the hot sun with a crashing hangover was not at all appealing. But she was. And there might be just the slightest possibility of getting laid here..."I guess I could spend some time with you," I said grudgingly. "It's a major holiday, but we celebrated last night, so I'm pretty much free today."

"What holiday?" She glanced at her guide-book.

"Custer Day."

"Custard Day? What flavor?" I caught a glimpse of mirth in her eye and knew she was messing with me, as I was with her.

"Vanilla," I said, staring pointedly at her enticingly displayed bosom.

"How fortunate for me!" she giggled. "Do you mind if I share your bench?"

I shrugged, taking mental inventory of my physical state. My faded jeans were wrinkled and greasy, my chambray shirt looked like I had slept in it, which I had, and I was pretty sure I stank. "Sure. But technically you'd also be sharing my bed, so maybe you want to think twice about that."

She giggled uneasily but minced over and perched on the edge of the bench three feet away from me. "You mean you sleep here?"

"Sometimes," I admitted. "Not always. Usually just when I'm too drunk to hitch-hike home."

"I guess you don't live in town then. Where do you usually stay?"

I gestured vaguely toward the north. "Up near Chewey. On the Illinois river."

"Oh, my! I bet that's nice!"

"Most white people wouldn't think so. But then I'm not white so it works for me."

"Oh. Well, I'd really like to see how, uh, real Indians live around here..."

"There's a nice Indian family that runs the motel across from the UKB casino," I said helpfully. "Although they may be Pakistani. They all look alike to me."

She blushed. "I mean Cherokee people. Native Americans."

"Oh. Well, if you have a covered wagon handy, maybe you could give me a ride home and I could show you around. Introduce you to some of my relatives, if they're not busy doing rain dances and torturing captives."

"Sorry, my oxen died and I ate them. So I had to rent a car instead."

I laughed in spite of myself. This girl was certainly not the stereotypical dumb blonde I had expected.

"Well then. Shall we go?"

She looked at me thoughtfully. "Have you eaten anything today?"

"Not really. But that's OK."

"Then why don't I take you out for breakfast first? As it happens, I have a room at the motel you mentioned, and they have a restaurant there..."

"Curry?" I said, grimacing. My stomach growled a low warning.

"No, no," she laughed. "Just a regular greasy-spoon kind of place. And I need to stop by my room anyway, so...?"

"Yeah, sure, if you want." I stood up and stretched, letting her get a good look at me. Most Cherokees come in one of two basic models: Long and lean, or short and squatty. I happened to be the long and lean type, but I wasn't more than a couple of inches taller than her.

She stood up beside me and pointed across the street. "I'm parked over there. Could you maybe direct me to the motel? This town is kind of confusing."

She stopped at the kerb. "I don't even know your name. I'm Meagan. But you can call me 'Meg.'" She extended a slender hand.

I took it and squeezed it lightly. It was cool and soft and my dick stirred in my pants. "I'm Two-Dogs-Fucking," I said gravely. "But you can call me 'Two-Dogs.'" What the hell. If she was a prude I might as well find out up front.

She choked back laughter. "I get it. Names are private. But what do you really want me to call you?"

"Chief?" I suggested.

"Don't be mean."

"Ok, I guess you can call me Will."

"Don't you have a Cherokee name?"

"Yes."

"But you're not going to tell me what it is, are you."

"No."

"Ok, then, Will. If you would kindly help me cross the street..." She put her hand in the crook of my elbow. My dick was getting happier by the minute.

We pulled into the motel parking lot and she parked in front of her room. She opened the door and beckoned me inside. Interesting. I stood by the door while she rummaged in her suitcase. "I don't want to be rude," she began nervously, "but I wondered if maybe you wanted to take a shower...after sleeping outside all night?"

"You truly are an angel," I said gratefully. "If you're sure you don't mind." I didn't have running water at my place, and a hot shower was always welcome. Usually I bathed in the river early in the morning, before it got infested with tourists in plastic canoes.

"No, go ahead. Oh, let me get in there first for just a second."

I waited while she used the bathroom. There was a tinkling sound and then the toilet flushed. Damn. I guessed even angels had to pee sometimes.

I showered as slowly as possible, luxuriating in the hot water, then unbraided my hair and used her shampoo and conditioner. When I got out I noticed there were no towels. Crap. My clothes were damp enough already, and I didn't want to put them back on while I was wet. I opened the door a crack and peeked out. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her long legs crossed, one foot swinging as she watched the weather report on TV. I'd heard that some girls could get themselves off that way. I wondered if that was what she was trying to do.

"Ahhh," I said, "I need a towel."

"Oh! I'm so sorry! I used both of them, and I forgot to hang them up afterwards." She snatched two towels off the bed and crossed to the bathroom door, her blue eyes focused steadily on my black ones. "Here." She held the towels out, but just out of my reach.

"Thanks." I opened the door a little further and grabbed the towels. Her gaze immediately dropped to my waist, taking in my uncircumcised brown cock, which was not erect but was obviously thinking about it. Her eyes widened slightly.

I know I should have had a clever line ready, but I didn't. I shut the door and toweled off, smelling her clean feminine scent on the towel, hoping she would think up some pretense to join me.

She didn't.

We walked over to the restaurant and were given a table in a back corner. "What would you like?" she asked. "I still have a coupon for free breakfast, it comes with the room, so order whatever you like."

"Coffee. And about a gallon of orange juice."

"Poor Will," she smiled. "No food?"

"Maybe we'll get lucky with some road-kill on the way out to Chewey."

She wrinkled her nose prettily and beckoned to the waitress. "Let us have one breakfast special, two cups of coffee and a large orange juice." The waitress nodded and shuffled off, coming back moments later with the coffee and juice.

I picked up the brimming juice glass and had to steady it with both hands to avoid spilling it. I drank deeply and set it down shakily.

"Maybe a couple of aspirins would help?" She rummaged in her purse.

"Probably not. What I really need is a stiff shot of vodka with this. You suppose they have that here?"

"No." She fished out a couple of tablets and handed them to me. I swallowed them dry. "But I saw these at the liquor store..." she looked around to see if anyone was watching, then took a small plastic pouch from her purse, tore off the corner, and squirted the contents into my glass. "I guess this makes me look like an alcoholic or something, but they were cute and on sale and I thought it might come in handy in an emergency or something, like maybe snake-bite, I don't know but now I'm glad I bought a few because-"

"You're not just an angel, but an angel of mercy." I sipped at the juice and felt the raw alcohol warm my stomach and rush into my bloodstream.

She colored prettily. "What? I assure you I'm all too human..."

"Of course you'd say that." My hands were less shaky already and my headache was fading. "The moment I first saw you I thought you were an angel that fell from heaven. And now I'm sure."

"I thought Cherokees didn't believe in heaven."

I shrugged. "I'm starting to believe."

"Well if that's all it takes maybe I should consider going into missionary work. There aren't a lot of jobs for cultural anthropologists these days."

I finished my OJ and vodka, drank the coffee black, and cleaned the breakfast plate of scrambled eggs, ham, grits, and a biscuit. It was suddenly good to be alive, and maybe not such a good day to die after all.

We went back to her rental car. I was hoping she might suggest that we go back to her room for a while, but she didn't. She drove, and I directed her out of town and onto Route 10 to the Illinois River Road turn-off, past the crowded river resort places and onto an unmarked dirt road. We bumped along for a few minutes before she said, "Is it much farther? I mean, this road doesn't seem to be getting any better, and this car is not really made for off-road-"

"We'll be OK. Just avoid the bigger holes. It's only another ten miles or so."

"Wow. This is like going back in time." We passed a few shabby houses and several decrepit trailers, most of which were surrounded by derelict cars and pickup trucks. Snarling, mangy dogs rushed out to chase the car from time to time, but they gave up after a few hundred yards and went back to where they came from, tails wagging triumphantly at having chased away another intruder.

When we got to my grandma's place, I told her to stop and park. "We'll have to walk from here. It gets kind of rough."

"Kind of rough," she chuckled. "I guess you mean more so than it has been."

"Much. I probably ought to let her know whose car this is. You want to come in for a minute?"

"Oh, could I? I mean, I don't want to bother them..."

"If she's busy she won't come out. We'll see. It's my grandma. She probably won't shoot at us."

We walked toward the leaning front porch of the old hand-hewn,mud-chinked log cabin, Meagan clutching at my arm. I stopped a respectful distance away and called out, "U-li-si?"

The bent old lady tottered out onto the porch, a shotgun under one arm, and squinted at us. Then she turned and went back into the house.

"She doesn't really talk," I explained to Meagan. "And when she does she pretends she doesn't speak English. But we have to go in for a few minutes so she can look at you. And we'll have to eat something, to be polite."

We walked up the creaking stairs gingerly and stood in the doorway of the cabin. "'Si-yo, U-li-si," I said. She was seated at the rough kitchen table, shelling last year's acorns. I hoped she wouldn't offer us any of her acorn cookies. Whatever you do with ground acorns, they still taste like shit.

"Huh," she grunted, then squinted at Meagan. "Tsa-la-gi?"

"No, Grandma," I said in Cherokee. "She's not Cherokee. Just a friend."

"Huh." She arose painfully from her chair and shuffled to the wood cook-stove, picking up a small cast-iron pot. She gestured toward the two kitchen chairs irritably.

"She wants us to sit down," I told Meagan, pulling out a chair for her. I sat down in the other and waited as Grandma set two small bowls in front of us and spooned a small amount of hominy into each, then set out two jelly-jars of cold well-water.

I took a spoonful of hominy and washed it down with water. "Wa-do, Ulisi."

"Huh." She looked at Meagan.

"You have to eat it," I whispered. "It's hominy. It's not bad, just tasteless."

Grandma shuffled over and stood behind Meagan, taking a long strand of her golden hair between arthritic fingers and examining it. "U-wo-du-hi," she muttered. "O-sta."

"She says your hair is beautiful," I told Meagan.

"Thank you," Meagan said. "I mean, 'wa-do.'"

Grandma's weathered face crinkled into a toothless smile. "Tsa-la-gi!" she croaked. "O-sta!"

"I think she wants to adopt you," I smiled. "I've never seen her warm up to anyone so quickly."

We finished the hominy and water and I stood, taking my grandmother's gnarled hands in mine. "Thank you for the food, grandmother," I told her in Cherokee. "It was most delicious. Now my friend would like to see where I live, so we'll be going. It was nice to see you." I kissed her wrinkled cheek.

I held Meagan's soft hand as I led her up the overgrown dirt track into the thick forest. When the twin ruts wandered off toward my mother's trailer, we turned onto a less traveled path. "That's my mom's place down there," I said, waving toward the bend in the road."

"Should we stop and see her too?"

"Nah. She's probably drunk."

"Celebrating Custard Day?"

"Not really. Celebrating poverty, mostly."

"What about your father?"

I shrugged. "Hard to say. Hasn't been around in a while. Hey, you know what's the difference between a Cherokee man and a picnic table?"

"Uh...no?"

"A picnic table can support a family of four."

She stopped walking, took my other hand in hers and gazed searchingly into my eyes. I wanted to kiss her. "Oh, Will. That's so sad. Was it supposed to be a joke?"

"Not really."

"Show me some happy things, Will. I don't want to be sad today." She leaned forward and kissed my cheek.

You kind of came to the wrong place, Angel, I thought. Hasn't been a lot of happy in the Cherokee Nation since Andrew Jackson was elected president.

We continued along the faint path toward my cabin, our fingers entwined. My heart was beating fast and hard. Few people ever saw my place, and I supposed it would be a shock to her, but I wanted to show her anyway.

When we got to the small clearing that held my cabin she stopped, her eyes widening in surprise. "Oh, my! Is this yours? It's so cute!"

"Well," I said, slightly embarrassed, "At least it's paid for." Since I was perpetually broke, I had built the little house out of what I could scrounge, for the most part, laboriously hauling rocks from the river bank for foundation and fireplace, and constructing the walls from scraps given away at local sawmills. The roof was corrugated steel salvaged from an old chicken barn. But I had taken my time, which I had plenty of, and it did have a certain rustic charm.

"However did you find this way out here?"

"I didn't exactly find it. I built it."

"Really? All by yourself?"

"Pretty much. Had to get a little help with the roof, is all."

Thunder grumbled softly in the west. A cool breeze stirred the trees.

"We better get inside," I told her. "We're about to get a little thunderstorm. Won't last long. But maybe it will get the tourists off the river for a while. They're a pain in the ass when I need to take a bath." I led her onto the screen front porch and opened the front door. She stopped and looked out, rather than into the house.

"I just can't believe this," she breathed. "It's like your house is part of the forest...like it all just grew here naturally. You're so lucky to live here."

"And this," I said, trying to sound like a real-estate agent as I ushered her through the front door, "Is the great room. Also known as the only room, other than the upstairs loft."

I tried to see it through her eyes as she stared around at the small room. The stone fireplace and chimney dominated the west end with a kitchen/dining counter next to it where I cooked on a camp stove. My other furniture consisted of a couch and end-tables, picked up curbside in town on junk-day. Cabinets made of unplaned lumber lined the wall opposite the couch, and shelves above were neatly stacked with most of my worldly goods, which didn't amount to much other than several rows of books discarded by the public library. "It's perfect!" she said. "Everything you need, and so neat and clean!" She looked up at the ceiling, which extended over only about two thirds of the main floor. "What's upstairs?"