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Raiding Party
By
Brad Hatfield, Nov 13, 2008
The night before I left Seattle, and twelve-hour days grilling steaks, flew to Anchorage for six dim-lit years of
exile, I was drinking beer, shooting barfly billiards with Ray, a full-blooded Sioux. He ran a sheet metal brake
at the shop next door, looked like Black Elk in blue jeans, jean jacket, pockmarked, stoic, had a cool menace,
held his drink, talked softly, and nobody ever beat us in doubles.
He bought my motorbike that night, the final loose end, a handshake and clip full of cash. His friend Rudy was
there, a Tulalip missing teeth, and they wouldn’t let me go without a send-off. We drove their pickup, me in
middle, cold brown beers on my lap, to the reservation, mean dirt rut road cutting through high grass, under
shivering stars and a scarred moon, crows circling.
We stopped a mile from the yellow houselights, cut the engine, pissed, chugged our twist tops. Rudy giggled as
he unpacked the truck bed revealing his surprise: crackers, fountains, Roman candles, sparklers, bottle rockets.
What followed was fine; if you’ve never had fireworks in your honor, oh, I recommend it. When the field caught
fire, we slammed cinders with our coats, but only gladdened the inferno.
Time to ride. We had sung the old war songs; we had tasted the smoking plains. Our hearts were happy and sad. We
were as those who have no minds, who have cut thongs that bind them. We jumped in the Ford, like it was a string
of fresh ponies, scrambling, cussing, and laughing. We feared no one, knew nothing would hurt us with our
dashboard weasel-tale charm. Sirens wailed, miles back; we tore for the interstate.
Brad Hatfield is a poet from Seattle, Washington. His work has appeared in a variety of print and online
publications including Switched-On Gutenberg, The Orange Room, Words-Myth, Decanto Magazine, The Tipton
Journal, and Margie Review.
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