The following column is a fictionalized satirical story written in the genre of ‘Creek Dialect Writings’. The events and characters depicted are fictitious.
Byline: Fus Yvhikv
“FORE!” Tarpalechee screams as he takes a mighty cut at his golf ball. With his short alligator arms, he choked up on the club past the grip and onto the metal shaft. As he swings downward, his sweaty hands cause him to lose his grasp. The club flies swiftly through the air twirling sideways like the rotating blades of a helicopter. The spinning club brushes Yahola’s hair, giving him a temporary flattop.
As the menacing club flies through the driving range, patrons scream and hit the deck. The club smashes into the letter P of a neon sign that spells TOPGOLF. It now reads TO GOLF.
“Heyluh!” I scream at Tarp. “Whaddya think you’re doin’?”
“I didn’t do that on purpose!” Tarp protests. “I lost control!”
“You and those alligator arms!” I say.
“Looks more like T. rex arms to me,” Fixico says laughing. “We should put him in Ripley’s Believe It or Not Circus. Could make some real toknawv. Just saying.”
“I’ll show you toknawv, Fix!” Tarp screams as he shakes his short-armed fist at Fixico.
“Cepan! You’re going to have to get closer,” Fixico taunts. “Fus, hold the este lopocke at eye level. That’ll make for a fair fight.”
“Why you!” Tarp says as he bullrushes Fixico.
Yahola intercepts Tarpalechee. “Wikvs! You boys calm down! We have to apologize to these people before we get thrown out,” Yahola says.
Yahola is correct. We forgot about the offended patrons. People are staring at us with a mix of fear and anger. It was time to charm the spectators. “Fix, we need you to calm the waters,” I say. “Work your magic.”
“Why me?” Fixico asks.
“Cause you got the charm,” I reply. “Think of it as snagging a crowd instead of another ‘Skin.”
“I’m your man,” Fixico says. Fixico turns to address the shocked crowd.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Fixico says. “We apologize for what just happened. My friend here with the T. rex arms is new at golfing.” Fixico motions toward Tarpalechee. Tarp shoots Fixico a Clint Eastwood narrow eyed glare. “And just to make everything right,” Fixico continues, “The next round is on my friend here, Fus!”
My chin drops to my chest. “Whut?!” I ask incredulously. Fixico chortles.
THWACK! A Native woman delivers a hard slap to Tarpalechee’s chipmunk cheek. His eyebrows are raised, and his mouth forms a large “O”. Tarp slowly raises his arms and places his palms on his beefy cheeks. The woman stands face to face with Tarp. Her eyes are narrow, and her nostrils flare with each deep breath. I recognize her from a photo Tarp showed me. “Nage’te?” Tarp meekly asks the woman.
“What? What is right!” the woman replies. “As in ‘WHAT’ are you doing here?”
“Vne?”
“Yes you!” You lying sack of-“
“Why you so cvpakke?”
THWACK! The woman delivers another stinging slap. She has a posse of five stern looking Native women standing behind her. We avoid looking them in the eyes.
“I’m mad because your lame, lying cvpo told me that you were volunteering at the soup kitchen!”
“I…uh…uh…ahem!”
“Spit it out, Tarp!” the woman commands.
“I, I, I was,” Tarp stutters. “Yeah, that’s it. I was headed to the soup kitchen when Fus called.”
The posse of Native women fix their warrior stare on me. I take a step back. “Don’t throw me under the bus,” I say.
“Yeah! Don’t you be blaming your friend,” the woman says as she shakes her head. “I’m not doing this! I’m not doing this!”
“Doing what?” Tarp asks.
“This! Rez Love! I’m not doing this anymore!” she declares as she spins on her heels. The Native women warriors stalk off with her.
“Don’t leave! Please don’t leave,” Tarp pleads. His lower lip is quivering, and tears well up in his eyes.
“She was the love of my life,” Tarp says sorrowfully.
“You’ve known her for two weeks!” I say. As tears stream down his face, Tarp picks up a small Igloo cooler and a huge turkey leg. He takes a large bite of the turkey and strikes the Igloo cooler with the turkey leg. We hear the heartbeat of the Igloo cooler.
Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom!
“Heyluh!” Yahola says. “He’s going to sing a 49 song.”
Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom!
Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom!
“Tawete! Here?” I ask. “Somebody stop him!”
Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom!
Tarpalechee sings.
“Hey, hi, yo
Hey ah, hey ahhhhh
Way hay uh
Way hay ya”
Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom!
“There was a time you loved me, and I loved you too,
Oh baby, what did I do?
To make you dump me like an old cell phone,
Baby, baby, losing you make me moan,
Like when I wreck a rez car on loan,”
Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom!
We circle Tarp and begin to round dance. The Frybread Boys silently stare far off into the distance. I see Tarp’s eyes glistening.
“Hey, hi, waya heeeeyeee
Way hey uh,
Hi ya, hey ya
Way hey ya”
Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom!
“My hair is still long, my eyes are brown,
My heart is broke, my eyes are down,
Now I have no one to make my frybread,
I guess this is what it means to be Red,”
Tarp’s lips are quivering. Perspiration breaks out on his forehead. A disobedient tear steams down his left cheek. Tarp bites down on his trembling lower lip.
Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom!
“Hey, hi, waya hiiiiiiii
Way hay uh,
Hi ya, hey ya
Way hey ya”
Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom!
“I will always love you till the day I die,
You mean the world to me, I’m not gonna lie,
On Tiger Mountain I’ll stand up high above,
And sing to you my song of eternal love.”
Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom! Ka-Boom!
On the final beat the turkey leg shatters. That’s Rez Love for you.
