Johnny Ray Gun

the first chapter of a novel that I abandoned in 1994

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Growing up on the Spokane Indian Reservation, my best friend was named Johnny Wilson. One of his nicknames was Johnny Ray Gun but most everybody called him Ray-Ray, which is kinda funny because Johnny Ray Gun is so much cooler. Ray-Ray and I drifted apart after I left the reservation. I escaped on the day after we graduated high school and had never planned on living there again. I was sometimes sad about the distance that existed between Ray-Ray and I. But you’re not required to be friends with anybody for a lifetime. Some friendships, even good ones, have time limits. So, yeah, maybe Ray-Ray and I were only meant to be close for the first eighteen years of our lives. That was okay. I still thought about him on a regular basis.

It was 1988 and I'd been living in Spokane for only a few months. After I’d moved away from the reservation, the rez, I'd lived in Boise, Idaho; Salt Lake City; Missoula, Montana; Portland, Oregon; and even a few months in San Francisco. I'd left the rez in 1980 and hadn’t even visited during all my time away. I hadn’t yet told my parents that I’d moved to Spokane, only fifty-five miles from the rez

So there I was watching TV in my Spokane studio apartment, a place so tiny that it felt more like am empty coffee cup than a place to live. It was two in the morning when the telephone rang. If you're an Indian then a phone ringing that late brings to mind four questions:

1. Who's drunk?

2. Which Indian got beat up by a white man?

3. Which Indian beat up a different white man?

4. Who's dead?

I nervously picked up the phone and said, "Hello." I hadn’t wanted to answer but you're not supposed to let a phone ring and ring. You obey the call. I know the rules.

"Hey, is Junior home?" asked the person on the other end of the line.

"Yeah, it's me," I said.

"Hey, Junior. It's Charlie."

"Charlie?" I asked. I was surprised. I hadn't recognized his voice because I hadn’t talked to him in a long while. And I couldn’t imagine how he’d found me. I didn’t think anybody on the rez knew where I was. And, anyway, Charlie wasn’t the kind of Indian who needed to make phone calls after midnight. He didn't drink much. Had a wife and a son. Charlie was responsible. He knew things that a man is supposed to know. He was the one who taught me that I should always wear black socks with black pants and black shoes. Otherwise, you got those white socks shining like two meteors. I'm kinda clueless about the ordinary details of life. But Charlie kept his shit together. He was an Indian who’d memorized the owner’s manual of everything. Best of all, he was the only Indian in my life who’d never made me worry. He'd never called me when he was drunk or in jail or depressed or even when he was happy. I thought about the time he’d called when he needed another player for his all-Indian basketball team. They were playing in an all-Indian tournament in Yakima. I should have told him no because I broke my leg about two minutes into the first game.

"How you been, Junior?" he asked me.

"My legs ain't broke," I said.

"That's good to hear," he said. “But I bet your jump shot is still busted.”

“My jump shot is a joy forever.”

”You’re still a liar,” he said. He laughed but there was something hiding in between everything he was saying.

”Everybody lies,” I said.

“What are you doing right now?” he asked.

"Just got back from Seattle," I said. “Was there over the weekend.”

"What were you up to?"

"Tried to get a Muckleshoot Indian girl to fall in love with me."

"How'd that go?"

"Ah, you know. She's one of them coastal Indians. They all think they can talk to orcas. And I ain’t even a little bit orca.”

Then there was a silence that would've been comfortable in-person but it was kinda painful over the phone. It got so quiet that I could hear those insomniac trucks rumbling down the freeway five blocks away. I don't always hear them.

"Listen to me," Charlie said. "I got bad news."

"Is there any other kind?"

"Are you sitting down?"

"Yeah."

"Johnny Ray Gun is dead."

"Oh, shit. Not Johnny, damn it.”

”It’s awful,” Charlie said.

“Are you sure he’s dead?” I asked.

"Yeah, I saw him."

I wanted to cry. My best friend. The kid who'd climbed three hundred trees with me.

“Man," I said. "Ray-Ray is gone? Are you super-sure?"

"Yeah," Charlie said. "He killed himself."

"Suicide is natural causes for an Indian," I said. It was a sad, dark joke that Indians often said to each other. Charlie laughed a little. Sad, dark laughter.

"How'd he do it?" I asked.

"Hung himself off his porch."

"Damn," I said. "And you saw him that way?"

"Bad luck, yeah. I was just showing up to visit him. I was the second person to see him hanging from that rope. His son saw him first."

"No way,” I said.

"Yeah, that kid couldn't even talk. He just sat there in the dirt with his mouth open like the night sky, you know?"

"Yeah, I know."

I stood and stretched my back. Felt my spine pop from the correction. I walked over to the television and turned the channel away from some dumb game show and found a black-and-white detective murder mystery playing on a better channel. I'm not sure why I was messing with the TV. Grief makes you do mysterious things. I think I just wanted somebody fictional to be dead so the real Ray-Ray would still be alive. I think I wanted to make a trade with God.

"When's the funeral?" I asked.

I didn't ask Charlie if he knew why Ray-Ray had killed himself. I didn't need to ask. Just about every Indian thinks about suicide. I'd been there once, twice, ninety times myself. A cousin of mine had cut his wrists after he was arrested for stealing a bicycle. This happened on the reservation. So he wasn't in big trouble. He wasn't in any kind of real trouble. But he’d killed himself anyway. The cell door hadn't even been locked.

"The wake is Thursday," Charlie said. "Funeral is Friday."

"Alright," I said. "I'll be there."

Charlie and I said good-bye.

I sat on the bed and remembered things about Ray-Ray. About our Johnny Ray Gun.

He was tall and skinny. Should've been a great basketball player but he didn't quite have the imagination for it. Mostly, for exercise, he ran miles and miles. Six in the morning, with all the Indians either getting ready for work or just getting home, and Johnny Ray Gun would be running down the road. He once told me that, for Indians, running is the most sacred way to travel around the world. He said that running is a ceremony. And I said that, for an Indian like me, it was turning the key and starting my car that was a sacred ceremony.

Ray-Ray wore his hair short, almost like a military crew-crew. He only had one eyebrow, meaning his two eyebrows grew together to become one. It stretched across his face like an otter pelt. But, despite that mammal on his face, Ray-Ray was a good-looking warrior.

And now, he was dead. Hanged himself from the porch. Hanged himself using his own damn house. I wondered if he'd died right away. Or if he'd struggled. I hated to think of him dying slow. I hated to think of him realizing that he didn't want to die. I was mad at him, too. He'd left behind his son and his wife. He'd left behind all of us, his friends. He'd left me behind.

I sat there on my bed until sunrise. I couldn't figure out what to do. My best ribbon shirt was in the closet. I could wear that to the funeral along with my best pair of Wranglers. Those polyester jeans made me sweat but they never wrinkled. I could wear my new basketball shoes and make sure my eyeglasses were clean and clear. Brush and floss. I wanted to be the best possible version of myself when I said goodbye to Johnny Ray Gun.

I stared at the telephone, wondering if I should call someone, some Indian, and tell them what happened. I picked up the receiver, decided to call my work. I was a janitor at Sacred Heart Hospital. I dialed the number by memory.

“Garcia Pizza. Can I help you?" said the stranger on the other end. It was a wrong number. I'd misdialed. I didn't know what to say.

"Garcia's Pizza. This is Linda. How can I help you?"

"Yeah, Linda, I need help," I said. "One of my friends committed suicide."

Linda hung up the phone. Click. Dial tone. Just like that. I redialed the number. Watched my fingers tap out the ten digits.

"Bob's Auto," a different voice answered. Another wrong number. Another misdial. I laughed out loud.

"Who is this?" the voice asked.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"I'm Bob."

"This is Junior," I said. "One of my best friends just committed suicide. Hung himself in front of his son."

"This ain't funny, Richie. Just get those damn parts over there."

I'd misdialed a number and Bob had misidentified me.

"Bob," I said. "What parts am I supposed to get?"

"Knock it off, Richie. Just get that damn carburetor over here."

"Right away, Bob," I said and laughed. Bob cussed and hung up. I laughed a while longer and tried to call my work for the third time.

"Hello, this is Carol," my boss said when she answered.

Finally, the right number.

"Yeah, Carol, this is Junior."

"Well, hello there, Mr. Junior. How was Seattle?"

"It was an okay weekend," I said. "But I have to, well, one of my reservation friends committed suicide. Hung himself, you know?"

“Oh my God, Junior. I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"

"I don't know what I am. Listen, I need a few days for the wake and funeral. Do I have vacation days I can use?"

"Oh, Junior, I'm sorry, but you haven’t worked here long enough to accrue vacation days."

"This ain't much like a vacation. How about sick days?"

"Oh, I'm sorry again. But you haven’t earned any sick days, either."

I didn't know what to say. I was trapped. I needed to go to the funeral and I needed to keep my job. I’d only worked there for a few weeks. They didn’t really know me. I was the new janitor. That’s all I was.

"Listen," Carol said. "I can't give you any extra vacation or sick days. But I can give you unpaid leave. Your job will be waiting for you. How many days you need?"

Such kindness. There are so many kind white people. Don't let any Indian tell you different.

"Just three days," I said.

"Is that enough?"

"Yeah, I gotta work. Going to Seattle left me pretty broke."

I looked around the room, at my ugly furniture, at the books stacked everywhere. I've always been a reader. Give me a good spy novel and I'll be peaceful for a day.

"Okay, Carol," I said. "I'll be back to work on Monday."

"That sounds good, Junior. And don't hesitate to call if you need anything else."

We said good-bye.

I thought more about suicide.

"Oh, Johnny Ray Gun, “ I said to myself. “What did you do?"

I counted all the money in my pockets. All the money in my apartment. All the money in my car. It was mostly one-dollar bills and coins. It wasn't much. I couldn't have run away with that small bit of cash. But it was enough to get me to my best friend’s funeral. It was enough to get me back home.