Clark, Susan J.

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MANUSCRIPTS 11THE TRADING POSTSusan J. Clark"Y ou are now entering the San Carlos Indian Reservation," thesign read."We should've stopped for breakfast back in Pima," Garry said."N on ikely we'll find much for the next sixty miles."We had been driving for about an hour, taking the scenic routefrom Safford, at the foot of Mount Graham, northwest on route seventytoward Globe. From there we would pick up route seventy-seven andtravel south to Tucson. Interstate ten was a more direct route-fortymiles shorter-but all desert, while our way would take us through theSuperior Mountains south of Globe. We weren't in a hurry, so wedecided to be tourists.The reservation lands were barren.. the road was the only break inthe monotony. Mountains loomed about twenty miles back from eitherside of the highway. They were cloaked in a mid-morning haze.I could understand now why the Indians hated us so. Themountains we "gave" them were the leftovers-left over after the.copper, silver and turquoise mines had been scooped up, along with theMount Lemmons, the Grand Canyons, and other tourist attractions.Nothing was attractive about the reservation. Its mountains interruptedthe desert more like warts spreading on a hand. The only vegetation thescaley peaks spawned was some mesquite, supplemented by tum-bleweed and cactus on the badlands. The sky was the only item we hadfailed to cheatthe Indians on; it was as blue on the reservation as it waselsewhere in Arizona.Garry slowed down as we approached some houses and told me tolook at them closely. The government built the dwellings for theIndians, he said, and supplemented a place to live and land to workwith $8,000 a year to every Indian over age eighteen, just because he.was a Native American. The houses were hollow, though. The Apacheshad removed windows, doors and floors, keeping their livestock in theshells. The Native Americans lived in mud huts about a quarter-mileeast. of the barns.We had passed a couple of country stores and, tin ally convincedwe weren't going to find a restaurant, we stopped at Indian Joe'sTrading Post for a snack. Joe's place had rusted gasoline pumps in/12 MANUSCRIPTS/front, no longer used. The brands they had offered once, long beforethe '74 energy crunch, had become as extinct as the prices on thepumps. A palomino with an Indian blanket over its back was tied to ahitching post on the north side of the store, and a drunken Indian waspassed out in the weeds to the south. Indian Joe perhaps?The screen in the door was rusted, and paint was peeling Tram itsframe. It squeaked as I pulled it open, and the warped floorboardswinced under my weight. The sun winked at me through slits in thewalls; crowds of flies clumped in pow-wows on sticky-paper hung fromthe rafters.I glanced at the selection of Hostess treats,grabbed a package ofDing Dongs and handed them to Garry to pay for. He went towards theback of the store in search of milk and fresh fruit, while I checked outthe health and beauty aids aisle. Indian Joe's had all the products thedrugstores stocked. Right Guard deodorant was available for $3.89,razor blades for $4.35 and sewing kits, the travel kind, for $2.57.With milk, Ding Dongs and three bananas in hand, Garry ap-proached the cash register; I was right behind him. An Indian boy ofabout twelve, to whom the horse belonged, was ahead of us. Whilewaiting for his.change he looked up at Garry and asked, "Hey mister,that your car?" Garry nodded. The boy leaned to his right to look outthe door at the red Corvette, holding onto the counter with his left. Helooked back up at us, puzzled, as he walked backward out the door.We heard the horse carry him offwhile we were paying.Indian Joe turned out to be the Anglo desert rat with the rottingteeth and furrowed skin who was working the register. While Garrypaid him, 1 squatted to survey the dusty glass case loaded withturquoise jewelry. The menagerie of animals represented in the displaywith inlaid wings and mottled backs, all the color of the sky, wouldhave made any zoo proud. "All made by Indians on the reservation,"Joe said.Just like every other souvenir in Arizona, I thought, and just asover-priced."Care to look closer at any of'em?" he asked.His fingers; wrists and throat were as loaded with the blue stuff asthe case. "No, thanks," I answered politely, dying to know what hismargin of profit was. Garry read my mind and nudged me. "Let's go,"he said.1. grabbed the sack breakfast and turned to leave. As I did, I cameface to face with a cigar store Indian. "How!" Joe chortled, jowlsMANUSCRIPTS 13jiggling, as I started. Garry put his hand against my back and guidedme out of the store. The drunk was asleep still, his hat over his face toblock out the noonday sun.We climbed in the car and left Indian Joe's Trading post in a dustcloud. We hadn't gone a mile when we saw the Indian boy and hispalomino. As we approached him it seemed as if he'd been waiting forus; he began to trot, then gallop the horse on the roadside,competingwith the car until it left him, too, behind in a cloud of dust.

The Trading Post

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The Trading Post

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