The Reservation Cab Driver

waits outside The Breakaway Bar in a ’65 Malibu with no windshield. It’s a beer a mile. No exceptions. He picks up Lester FallsApart who lives in The West End twelve miles away, good for a half-rack. When Congress raised the minimum wage the reservation cab driver upped his rates made it a beer and a cigarette each mile. HUD evicted him so he wrapped himself in old blankets and slept in the front seat of his car. When the BIA rescinded his benefits he added a can of commodities for every mile. Seymour climbed in the cab said, “This is a hell of a pony.” “Ain’t no pony,” the reservation cab driver said, “it’s a car.” During the pow wow, he works 24 hours a day gets paid in quilts, beads, fry bread, firewood. 3 a.m., he picks up Crazy Horse hitchhiking. “Where you going?” asks the reservation cab driver. “Same place you are,” Crazy Horse answers, “somewhere way up the goddamned road.”