Notas del episodio
Chapter 9: Breakfast on the Mississippi
I woke up a few minutes after sunrise. Little Josh had gotten up nice and early, making sure that his mother paid heavily for her night out drinking. She held her head as if it were a drippy eggshell. “Wake up mom, we’re crossing the Mississippi River!” Mother Michelle tried to rise from her bed to see the water, but the yolk was dripping off the shell. She lowered her broken head with care; she was down for the count. Thanks to British Sue’s premature evacuation from the Blues club, our eggs were intact.
I looked down the length of my body when someone touched my foot. English Tessa had one leg hanging off the bunk and she slipped down onto the back platform out of sight.
I watched British Sue lying there breathing softly, cuddled up with her head on my shoulder and her hand against my cheek. She opened her eyes and caught me looking. I brushed her hair from her brow with two fingers and kissed her softly on the forehead. She closed her eyes to go back to sleep and I left her with a sigh.
I felt surprisingly well-rested, so I went up to sit on the buddy seat next to Driver Brian. We had traveled across the entire state of Wisconsin in the middle of the night. Claiming to be “Experienced in ‘matters of the bladder,’” the big blond driver pulled off I-90, near La Crescent Minnesota. “Hangovers prefer porcelain,” he taught me. Many of the passengers were suffering from the Chicago Blues, and the Minnesota Welcome Center had running water and flushable toilets. It was encouraging the way he was always trying to help me learn how to be a good Green Tortoise Driver, even though I knew the chances of that happening were slim to none.
Deutsche Mark and I met up in the men’s room in front of the mirror while brushing our teeth. He addressed me with a good-natured wink and a foamy smile. He stopped brushing to say, “I’m so psyched. Chris just told me that we’re going to Wounded Knee.” He continued brushing.
“What’s Wounded Knee?” I asked after I spit.
The Dutchman stopped brushing abruptly and stared at me in the glass. “I can’t believe you’ve never heard of Wounded Knee,” he marveled. “I thought everyone knew about Wounded Knee.” He had an incredulous look on his face. “It’s where the US troops massacred the Indians.” He went on with a tone, trying to spark my memory. “One-hundred-fifty women and children were murdered with Gatling guns and cannon fire. They were torn to shreds with fifty caliber bullets.”
“I remember now,” I said in astonishment. “That’s in the Badlands, right?”
“Right!” he confirmed.
“That’s how Crazy Horse got famous,” I postulated.
“So, you do know about it,” he rejoiced. He took a swig of water, gargled and spit. “Chris gave me this cool book to read.”
“Black Elk Speaks,” I broke in, finishing his thought.
“Yes!” he confirmed. “You know it?”
“Not really,” I confessed. “Chris was telling me about it the other day.”
Deutsche Mark spoke with enthusiasm. “It tells the story of the fall of the Red Man from the eyes of one of the holy people. Pretty cool stuff. You should read it, man.”
“I’ll take it after you,” I suggested.
“Absolutely,” he enthused.
My interest was piqued. “My cousin wrote a children’s book about Crazy Horse,” I told him. “It’s the story of the sculptor, the guy who is carving the mountain into the giant sculpture of Crazy Horse. The sculpture won’t be finished in our lifetimes, or our children’s lifetimes. It’s already the largest sculpture in human history.”
“Dude! We’re going there on this trip. I’m so psyched we get to see it.”