Holding Their Own: The Toymaker Read Online Free PDF Page A

a few minutes now takes so much longer. Time used to be money; now it is life or death.
    Turning again to his passenger, Hack asked, “What is your name? You’ve been camped out, guarding my place for months, and I still don’t know your name.”
    The Apache smirked, “I don’t think you can pronounce my Indian name, but there is an interesting story behind it if you would care to hear?”
    “Of course,” the inventor replied, always eager to learn new things.
    “I asked my mother about my name when I was much younger, and she told me that when my older sister was born, the first thing my father saw when he went outside was the sunrise, so her name is Warming Sky. And then my brother came along, and the first thing my father saw was a soaring hawk, so he was named Wind Rider.”
    “Okay,” Hack replied, “I’m following you so far. What’s your name?”
    “Two Dogs Fucking.”
    The inventor’s eyes grew wide, his jaw physically dropping. For an uncomfortable moment, Hack didn’t know what to do or say, scared any reaction would give insult.
    The storyteller bailed him out, breaking into a wide grin, and then letting loose with a belly-deep laugh. Hack knew he’d been had.
    “Very funny,” the toymaker replied after his passenger’s humor had subsided. “You had me there for a minute.”
    “White people love that joke,” the Native American added. “In reality, my name is Jack Smith.”
    Again, Hack did a double take, not sure if his passenger was pulling his leg once more. “Seriously?”
    “Yes, I know it’s not all Native-sounding and steeped in tradition, but it is the truth.”
    “And what did you do before the collapse, Mr. Smith?”
    “I was a high school PE teacher and baseball coach. I graduated with a degree in education from New Mexico State,” the Apache explained.
    “Baseball?”
    “Love the game for its strategy and pace,” Jack responded enthusiastically. “I made it into the Dodgers’ minor league system, but just didn’t have enough movement on my fastball to make the Bigs. So I went on to teaching and coaching. We went 16 and 5 the last year before it all went to hell.”
    “That’s very interesting, Mr. Smith,” Hack noted. “Now that I think about it, I guess a lot of the local folks were into baseball.”
    The Native waved his hand through the air, “Please, Grandfather, my friends call me Apache Jack, or just Jack, or asshole. I don’t like Mr. Smith, it makes me sound like that nerdy guy from that old movie… you know, Mr. Smith Goes to the Senate… or something like that?”
    Nodding, Hack did indeed remember the movie. “Okay, Apache Jack it is.”
    “So now it’s my turn. What is your story?”
    “I am actually part Native American as well,” Hack replied, “Although I didn’t even know until my mother was on her deathbed. She was a full-blooded Lakota Sioux who married a shopkeeper from Minnesota. They moved to California shortly after I was born. Until the very end, she never breathed a word about her heritage.”
    Hack’s reminiscing was interrupted by their arrival at the pueblo.
    The inventor didn’t know the age of this specific village, but he guessed it had been founded hundreds of years prior. Single-story adobe and straw brick structures dominated the landscape, most of the residences quite modest in size.
    Only the church’s steeple and two large, round-topped kivas protruded from the low-rise skyline dominated by thatched roofs. Even the few trees scattered about seemed to prefer a low profile.
    Other than the smattering of pickup trucks and cars parked here and there, it was a timeless community. Many of the homes were equipped with tie-up rails for horses; the streets were narrow, paved only with packed dirt.
    Modern-day air conditioners were non-existent, the architecture boasting high ceilings and thick earthen walls that remained cool even in the brutal New Mexico sun. Corner fireplaces and their soot-blackened stacks dotted the