The Plastic Indian

Playing in the shade, the dirt and gravel,

I remember looking for stuff. There were not much there, mostly just rocks.

But a young boy with a keen eye could find all kinds of stuff; a side mirror, from a scooter, an ancient bottle cap for a soda I’ve never heard of, a fossil of what must have been the smallest dinosaur in the world, fins and all.

There were dangers of course.

By the rising boulders, there grew what looked like sweetpeas , but was actually something very dangerous. my grandpa told me later, that it could have killed me, if I put just one more pea in my mouth...

Still I kept hunting for treasure.

Then, on a hot summer day, I narrowed my search to just under the pecan tree.

This is where I found it. A plastic Indian warrior.

I had a few toy soldiers, standing or kneeling with their rifles , on their square bases. But this was new stuff. Cowboys and Indians were not very popular in my time. But that Brave Apache, or Cherokee, or Lakota, was impressive: half-standing, half-kneeling. His spear, decorated with feathers was held raised above his head, poised for a thrust. with the other hand, he held a rounded shield.

A treasure! A work of art! A defiant warrior, standing his ground, fiearce beyond belief. Fearless.

I was interrupted with admiring my prize, when I heard someone asking me something.

It was a man sitting at the driver’s side of a car. The door to the other, opposite seat, the one facing me, was open.

“I said, do you like my Indian friend?” the guy asked.

Immidiate conflict.

Rule no. 1: never talk to strangers.

Rule no. 2: be polite to other people.

Not answering will be impolite.

Can I avoid talking, and yet answering with a nod, perhaps?

What if he thought I was rude?

What if he was some uncle or family friend I just didn’t recignize. It always happens in family meetings, especially everybody coming to see the new baby.

Besides, the driver phrased the question as implying ownership of the warior (my indian friend- Not your Indian friend!).

If this is his, he might want it back.

How could I handle loosing something so precious, when I just found it?

“You’re shy” the man says “but I can see you like the Indian very much. It’s yours. I’m giving it to you. ”

As he was talking, he took out a cellophane bag, and started to gently place more indians on the empty seat between us.

“Come closer. See my collection. I might give you one or two” he said, not even looking at me. Busy placing more and more plastic warriors on the upholstery.

What to do?

I decided that it can’t hurt to take closer

look.

I took a step forward, focusing on the bounty that was being arrayed for my inspection: Fighting indians with spears and bows, cowboys with gallon hats and pistol belts and lassos. A Cavalry officer riding a horse with a bugle horn, calling all around him to charge.

I took another step closer.

The guy took the cavalry officer and held it out, gesturing me to take it.

I took another step.

I was almost able to reach it, when the guy moved back a bit, still holding the figure, but now sitting straight on the left hand side.

“Come on and take it” he said.

I took yet another step.

Coming almost inside.

It was then that my mom came running at us. Murder in her eyes.

The guy, seeing that he was going to catch more than he wanted, quickly flipped the ignition and drove off in a flash. He didn’t even bother closing the other door, but I remember it slamming shut as he made the sharp turn out of the parking spot.

I was left without any more indians, just dust kicked up by the car, and my mom.

She was livid.

“What did I tell you about playing here by yourself?!” “What did we say about talking to strangers?!” “You’re a grown boy. Can’t I trust you to stay put while I take care of your brother?”

And so on and so forth.

I knew I was in trouble.

But I would not show her the Indian I got.

She would take it away. For sure.

She would throw it to the trash, where it would sit on top and taunt me to pick it up, just like the dinosaur I found before..

I listened as she raged, as she adnonished.

But I did not open my hand, and placed the Indian in the back pocket of my shorts.

As we walked home, I remember a sharp sensation in my buttocks, wandering if it was the spear doing that.

The police came , asking me questions in the super condescending way that they take with kids.

Asking me questions about the car. About the chickenhawk.

But what could I say?

I didn’t remember if it was a Chevy or a ford. It might even have been a beetle.

I didn’t even remember the color.

All I could remember was how fast it drove out when the jig was up, and how much dust it made.

As for the man, I remembered even less. My eyes were much too occupied with the toys.

Perhaps if I was allowed to actually talk to him, I would have needed to look him in the eyes. All I remember is his hand holding the cavalry officer by his hat and bend his Hand back, so that it was as if it was another finger, curling back , inviting me in.

They did not ask anything substantial about the indians and the cowboys,

But grownups, seem to have a very strange way to look at things. I already knew that.

I kept the Indian hidden for a long time, it was kept quarantined from the khaki and green soldiers in their shoebox.

Segregated for his own good I decided. He was bigger then them and the base he was standing on, was elliptical, and not a square or rectangular shape as they were. Besides he was a completely dufferent story. They wouldn’t have gotten along, I knew...