Fixed Income  anywhere else.

Sooner or later, he’s probably going to be making 

french fries alongside me. 
When I landed the McDonald’s job, I was surprised to learn that I 
was the only teenager. I thought fast food was the only place  I’m saving my money for college. I screwed off my first two years 
where teenagers could get jobs. But most of the workers were  of high school, like too many Indians do, so I don’t have the 
college students or college-effing-graduates. One of the cooks  grades for a four-year school. But Seattle has some awesome 
has an Electrical Engineering degree. And he’s using all that  community colleges. I can kick ass in my studies there and earn 
science education to make sure there are two pickles, and only  my way into a university somewhere close to home. 
two pickles, on the hamburgers. 
These are desperate times, and I’m not as desperate as a lot of 
I don’t mean to make fun of my co-workers. They’re mostly cool.  people, but I’m desperate enough to need this job. 
I’m angry at this effing country for making these adults work at 
McDonald’s. The woman who works the drive-through is a  There’s an elderly white man who works here. His reflexes are too 
forty-five-year-old single mother and has three kids. How the hell  slow to use any of the equipment, so he greets people at the door 
does she pay for anything with her McDonald’s wages?  and clears and cleans tables. 

And don’t think it’s an accident that 99% of my co-workers are  He’s got a sharp mind, though. I like what he has to say. We take 
Black and Latino. I’m Native American and I’m pretty dark for a  our breaks together. We put on coats to cover our McDonald’s 
mixed-blood urban Indian. The only thing white in this McDonald’s  polo shirts, walk a block, step into an alley, and smoke. 
are the effing vanilla milkshakes. 
His wife died ten years ago. 
Sometimes, I feel guilty that I have this job. There might be other 
“Old husbands aren’t supposed to live longer than old wives,” he 
mothers and fathers who need it. But it ain’t like my parents are 
said. “My wife should be the widow sitting with other old widows 
rich. My Mom, the Indian, is an Academic Advisor at the University 
making fun of their dead husbands.” 
of Washington, and makes decent cash, but my Dad, the white 
guy, got laid off from Boeing two years ago and can’t get a job 
He has a girlfriend, though. A few girlfriends, actually.   

“When you’re a single man in the old folks home,” he said, “you   
spend a lot of time dancing with different women.” 
 
“Dancing is what you geezers call it?” I said. “You’re, like, the 
oldest playboy in the world.”   

After a few months of cigarette friendship, he asked me to call him   

Grandfather with a capital G. 
 
“Isn’t that what you Indians call your respected elders?” he said. 
 
“Not grandpa or gramps or old man or geezer. It’s Grandfather like 
it was my royal name.” 
 

All four of my grandparents, two Indian and two white, died before 
 
I was born, so I didn’t have any traditional elders. I needed a 
grandfather. I was hungry for a grandfather. 
 

“Grandfather,” I said. “It’s time to go back to work.” 

 

He smiled as big as I’d ever seen. He loved the respect. I loved 

 
respecting him. In this sad country, respect is the only thing most 
of us can afford.   

***   
Honor Society  Way-ya-hey-hey, go, go, little truck, speed along with skill and 
luck, way-ya-ho-hey. 
On the mornings after house parties, I gather the empty, 
half-empty, and nearly full beer cans, empty them into the sink,  Once in Spokane, I drive to the recycling center near the 
crush them flat, and throw them into the bed of my grandmother’s  abandoned East Sprague Drive-In and sell my aluminum cans for 
truck.  fifty-five cents per pound. I’ve done the math: 

She’s been dead for three years but it is still her truck. I’m only 
borrowing it from her ghost. It has over three hundred thousand  1. I need to sell 818 pounds in order to make $450. 
miles on the odometer but I keep it running with tools, prayers,  2. I need $450 in order to pay for the SAT prep course 
and hand-drum honor songs.  that guarantees I’ll raise my test scores by 20%. 
3. In the competition to win scholarships and admission 
Way-ya-hey-ya, start, engine, start! Way-ya-hey-ya, don’t break my 
into great colleges, a great SAT score makes all the 
heart! 
difference. 
  
When the truck bed is filled with cans, I tie a sheet over them to 
keep them from flying out, and drive off my reservation into 
My parents live on government welfare and tribal charity. Their 
Spokane, Washington. 
full-time job is sadness. Neither of them graduated high school 
and they haven’t lived anywhere but on our reservation. But, sober 
I’m seventeen but don’t have a driver’s license or even a learner’s 
or drunk, they have always played hand-drums and sang the 
permit. My family is poor and we can’t afford driver’s ed. And I 
ancient and new songs: 
can’t take the driving test if I haven’t passed driver’s ed. But I don’t 
need official approval to drive safely. I obey the speed limit, check 
Way-yay-hey-hey, I can’t win or lose, I got rez-rez-reservation 
my mirrors often, and keep both hands on the wheel. 
blues, Ya-ya-hey-hey. 
They have taught me to sing and drum. And though I don’t believe  When I take that SAT, I will sing, if only in my imagination, because 
in God, I believe a beautiful song is approximately God. So I sing  I can’t bring in my real drum. I will sing to lessen my fear. And I will 
and drum with my mother and father. I sing with my tribe.  sing about this crazy life: 

And I travel our reservation, by car and foot, to collect aluminum  Ya-ya-hey-hey, you can’t leave and you can’t stay, 
cans. Pound by pound, dollar by dollar, I am preparing myself for  way-ya-hey-hey. 
the test, for the most important questions of my life: 
Ya-ya-hey-hey, you got too many questions too many days, 
​ hen the Indian boy, poor and…, decided 
Complete the Sentence: W way-ya-hey-hey. 
that he had to… his reservation, he felt… 
Ya-ya-hey-hey. Should you hate? Or should you love? 
Way-ya-hey-hey. 
1. suicidally depressed…escape…like he was trying to 
save his life  Ya-ya-hey-hey. The answer is All of the Above. Way-ya-hey-hey. 

2. loyal to his tribe…remain on…that he had no other 

*** 
choice 
3. very intelligent…help…that a college education was 
 
vital 
4. devoted to his parents…abandon them and…like a   
traitor 
5. ambitious…see the world beyond…elated and terrified   

  
 

 
Valediction  The next morning, we met up before school, and vowed to never 
do it again. One time was kind of innocent, but more than that 
After school, after football practice, every day for three years, John  would be criminal. 
and I walked to the grocery store in our little town and bought 
candy, potato chips, and soda pop. It was a ceremony. We said  But after practice that night, we did it again. Then again the day 
hello to the old couple who owned the store, stepped into the  after that. We shoplifted for a week. 
walk-in cooler, grabbed our cold drinks, paid for them and our 
other snacks, and headed to John’s house or mine, depending on  The thrill and guilt grew bigger each time. 
what our parents were planning to cook for dinner. 
We joked and laughed with the old people who owned the store. 
It was an average life for two average kids.  We paid for five bucks of snacks as we stole twenty more. 

But, one day, in November of our senior year, John and I, as usual,  Then I couldn’t do it anymore. 
stepped into the cooler and grabbed our favorite cans of pop. But 
“John,” I said. “We have to stop. We’re going to get caught. They’ll 
then we looked at each other and we both had the same thought. I 
kick us off the team. They might throw us out of school.” 
don’t know why it happened. Without saying a word, John and I 
grabbed three six-packs of soda and stuffed them into our duffle 
“Just one more time,” he said. “Come on, Pete. They’re too old to 
bags. Carrying the carbonated loot, we paid for our usual junk 
catch us.” 
food, walked to John’s house, raced into his bedroom and 
celebrated. We drank all that pop and got wound up and stupid on 
“I can’t do it, man.” 
sugar and caffeine. We could have stolen beer but we were 
athletes. And jocks did not get drunk in our school.  “You’ve always been a wuss.” 
I walked home alone while John went to the store. I thought he  “No, sir,” I said. 
might text or call me after he left the store. I didn’t hear anything 
from him.  They all studied my face. They knew I was lying. They wouldn’t let 
me get away with it. 
When I got to school the next morning, I immediately heard the 
bad news. John had been caught shoplifting. I knew they’d  “Okay, Pete,” the principal said. “John already told us he did it 
wonder how I was involved. John and I went everywhere together.  alone.” 

Halfway through first period, I was summoned to the principal’s  I could tell they hadn’t believed him, either. But there was nothing 
office. He was there with the superintendent, the school  they could do. I hadn’t confessed and John had denied that I was 
counselor, and the football coach. It felt like an interrogation.  a thief, too. He was kicked off the football team, sentenced to 
community service picking up litter around town, and was 
“Peter,” the principal said. “I’m sure you know why you’re here.”  suspended from school for a month. 

“Because of John,” I said.  During that month, he and I didn’t see each other. We didn’t call or 
text. We’d been constantly together for years but things had 
“Yes,” he said. “Did you know what he was doing? Were you  changed. I don’t know why he didn’t contact me. But I was too 
involved?”  ashamed to talk to him. I’d let him take all the punishment. I kept 
playing football. I didn’t have to scoop up dog shit while my 
I wanted to tell the truth. I knew that I should confess. But it felt like 
classmates watched. I wasn’t suspended. And my reputation 
I’d destroy my life by admitting to the crime. I wondered if John 
wasn’t ruined. I wasn’t branded as a good kid gone bad. In fact, 
had already told them that I’d stolen nearly as often as he had. Did 
some people thought John had betrayed me by shoplifting and 
he do the right thing? 
nearly getting me into trouble. 

“Pete,” the principal asked again. “Were you involved in this?” 

When John came back to school, he wouldn’t look at me. And I 
wouldn’t look at him. This silence went on for the rest of the year. 
We ignored each other at our graduation ceremony. Our parents 
ignored each other, too. 

Late that night, at a kegger down by the river, we stood at 

separate campfires. I didn’t drink anything. But he got really drunk. 
I was worried for him. He caught me staring. He threw his beer 
into the fire and staggered up to me. 

He grabbed me by my shirt and shook me. 

“You aren’t who I thought you were,” he said. 

“Neither are you,” I said.