After a stop at a gas station where Emjay pumped the gas while Mom went in and bought us each a snack, we hit the road and head south toward the next place in our game, Modesto. I sit in the back and play with Ani while we listen to a new CD my brother somehow acquired. It’s a rapper named Kool Moe Dee. The song Mom kept making him play over and over again was called “I Got to Work.” She loves it. He raps so fast. Faster than we’ve ever heard before. But I think she wants it repeated so I can learn it. I bet she plans on us performing it on the street next time we need money. Everyone will be impressed if we can pull it off. And impressed people tend to give more money.
I feel weird, and realize it’s because I miss Leland. I think we would have ended up being best friends if things were different. Maybe in the next life. When we’re not poor. But I need to erase all that from my mind. Look forward, never back. The past is the past, even the fresh past from earlier today. Stockton to Modesto is thirty-three miles. All we got to do is stay on the 99 headed south. As Mom drives and as Emjay tries to sleep a bit more, I try to help Mom by sorting all our laundry. I make two piles, lights and darks.
When we arrive in Modesto, the sun is sinking out of the sky. It gets dark pretty darn fast here. I wonder why. Maybe it’s because even though this is just another city, we are nearer to a desert. I can feel a desert nearby. Deserts have a particular feel to them. The air is dry. The wind is hot. And it smells like dust.
We drive through the city for a few minutes until we reach the laundromat. Another good thing about all cities. They have enough residents that don’t own washers and dryers, so they pop these places up every few blocks. I’ve been to at least a hundred of them so far, and I think it’s the same dude that owns every single one, because laundromats all look the same. They even smell the same and have that same annoying buzz from all the machines and fluorescent lights combined, and it rings in my ears for days after each visit.
As we park and get out, Emjay and I carry the loads inside. Mom makes a quick phone call at the phone booth near the corner while holding Ani. I don’t know who she’s always calling, but I figure it’s her checking up on her applications or some government assistance office that keeps giving her the runaround.
As I start loading the washers, Emjay meets Mom by the front entrance. They speak briefly, before it turns into a shouting match. I hate this part. This is the only time I wish that annoying buzz was louder. After a few minutes, Emjay returns. He kicks off his shoes and kicks them toward me.
“Just stuff them with socks when you put them on,” he says.
“Then what are you going to wear?” I ask.
“I’m not as helpless as you are. I’ll get new ones,” he says, and walks away.
I want to say thanks, but I also know his shoes will be even bigger on me than the ones from those four guys in the park. And he knows that too. And he just called me helpless. And he’s leaving again.
“Emjay,” I shout, but he doesn’t turn around—even though I know he heard me.
He leaves, and my mom enters. That’s always how it is with them. I wish they’d stop fighting for once and just talk. I don’t even need them to laugh. Just a talk where it doesn’t end with him leaving and her crying.
Mom is hiding her tears better this time than last time. Maybe it’s because she has Ani in her arms. She smiles when she sees I loaded up the washers. All that’s left is putting the quarters in the slots, adding detergent, and pressing the button.
“I’ll take it from here, kiddo,” she says, and hands me Ani.
“Did you tell him to give me his shoes?” I ask.
“No. That was his idea,” she says, and begins digging in her purse for her laundry pouch full of coins. “It looks like your brother won’t be joining us tonight, but he knows where we’ll be if he changes his mind.”
“Didn’t you tell him about the grocery store? About the food we’re getting?”
“I told him everything. He didn’t care. But you know what? We care. And we are going to have so much fun. Why don’t you go make a list while I finish this up?” she suggests.
As she is doing the clothes laundry, she’ll also be doing her brain laundry. That’s when she goes over all her thoughts and separates them into lights and darks.
“Just make sure you don’t accidentally leave a dark thought in with the lights. It will ruin the whole load,” I tell her.
She nods. She shouldn’t even bother washing her dark thoughts, she should just toss them in the trash. But that’s easier said than done, or so she says.
I run out to the car and grab my backpack that holds our art supplies. Back inside the laundromat, Ani and I head over to the long plastic bench that runs along the window wall. I zip open my backpack. A stack of my drawings stares up at me. I love these drawings. They are all animals. They’re not very good—I’m no artist or anything—but still, I love them. Mom loves them too. She says when we have a home, she’s going to frame them and put them on the walls. There used to be more. I had twenty-seven of them. But over the past months, we had to sell some. Mom made a sign for it. It reads AUTHENTIC NATIVE AMERICAN ANIMAL ART, which is technically true, I guess, but I still find it funny. We sit on curbs, medians, road islands, corners, and sidewalks to sell them. Mom calls it our side hustle. I call it our sidewalk hustle. Everyone is quite impressed when they find out little old me drew them. The crocodile was my favorite. It went for thirteen bucks. Most go for five or ten. Emjay made a hummingbird that flew for twenty-five dollars. But he’s really good at drawing. His drawings look like photographs. And that was when we had colored pencils. We don’t have those anymore. And Emjay doesn’t draw anymore. He said it’s a waste of time. But I know he misses it.
I should draw Ani. But that one won’t be for sale. That will be only for me. Unless someone offers me a hundred bucks, then maybe. I pull out a blank sheet and a pencil. I lick my lips and begin my list … Well, I almost begin it. Mom’s ready to go.
“We’ll shop for an hour, come back and switch it all to the dryers, make a quick stop, come back and load it all up, and then go check into our room. How does that sound?” she asks.
“Daunting,” I say.
She smiles. “Nice new word. Where’d you hear it?”
“Some guy said it at the shelter. At first, I thought he said the shelter was haunting, but Leland said the man said the shelter was daunting.”
“Definition?” Mom asks.
“Seeming difficult to deal with. Intimidating. Discouraging. Leland’s mom had a dictionary.”
“Quick! Daunting rhymes with?”
“Wanting. Flaunting. And haunting.”
“You missed taunting, but good job. Use it in a sentence,” she presses on.
“The beaver won’t give up, not ever, however daunting his job is, he will make that damn dam,” I say.
Mom shakes her head. “Clever little amik. But it will all go by quickly, and in no time, we’ll be chowing down. Let’s go,” she says, and I zip my backpack up and carry Ani out of the laundromat.
The grocery store isn’t far. It’s just enough distance for one song to play while Mom drives. She chose “Heart of Gold,” by Neil Young. He’s one of her favorites. And she sings the entire song at the top of her lungs, with the windows down.
We pull into a huge parking lot. The grocery store is massive. FOOD 4 LESS is mounted up on the top of the building in large, bold yellow letters. It’s like a theme park. A hundred liquor stores and 7–Elevens could fit into this place. We get out of the car, but I leave Ani in the back seat, with a window cracked open so she gets some fresh Modesto air.
Mom and I walk to where all the shopping carts hang out and pick one. I wonder if I look like a clown walking in Emjay’s shoes. They’re way too big. I stuffed socks in them to fit better, but I still feel like a clown with each step I take. They make me wobble instead of walk, like a penguin. I choose the shopping cart for us. Mom doesn’t care when one of the wheels goes AWOL and starts spazzing out, but I do care. The squeaks and wobbles drive me crazy.
We push our cart into the grocery store and begin. Most kids my age probably find grocery shopping boring. But I think the supermarket is one of the most exciting places to be. It’s like a really fun game. There are aisles and aisles of food. And you get one metal basket on wheels to fill up with whatever you want, depending on how much money and how many coupons you have. Then, at the end, instead of giving everything back and thanking the store for letting you play, you get to stand in a line and show one of the employees all the stuff you chose. Then they take your money and coupons and put all your stuff in bags for you. You get to then take it all home with you. Imagine going to a toy store and playing in there all day, and when it’s time to go home, the store says you can keep all the toys. Supermarkets are like that. They’re amazing.
“We can’t go berserk, we only have seventy-five dollars,” she says as we stroll down the first aisle, which is the breakfast section.
“What’s berserk mean?” I ask.
“I think it means ‘wild.’ Like in an out-of-control way. The wolves went berserk on the fallen caribou.”
“Emjay went berserk on those skinheads in the park,” I say as I grab a box of Cocoa Puffs off the shelf. “Gotcha. I won’t go berserk.”
“He won’t say, so tell me, did he get hurt?” she asks.
“Just his knuckles.”
She half smiles and half frowns. “Go grab a milk. Half gallon. One percent.”
As I take a step away from her, she does what she always does when we are in grocery stores together. She sets her hips, arches her back, and raises her chin.
“Opin, mighty Ojibwe ogichidaa of mine,” she says in a way that our ancestors would have said it, if they spoke English.
Ogichidaa means “warrior.” She emphasizes each word, and takes her time, like each word is its own sentence. Kind of like how white people imitate Native American speaking, but better. And we’re allowed to do it, because we are Native American. We’re not making fun of them. We’re having fun with them. They are inside of us. She calls it Broken Ojibwe, which she shortened to Brojibwe. “Noodin has spoken to me, ningozis.”
Noodin means “wind.” Ningozis means “my son.”
It’s my turn. “What did the wind say to you, ninga?” I ask.
Ninga means “my mom.” We don’t know many words, but these ones we do. These ones we use every chance we get.
“It said … today is a good day to hunt,” she says, and pulls out her invisible bow and arrow.
I pull out mine. We are no longer two people grocery shopping. We are now two warriors hunting down our next meal. Emjay doesn’t play this game with us. He thinks it’s stupid and says we look like fools, but Mom says caring about what other people think is the biggest waste of time anyone can ever do. Because even if we get strange looks, laughs, pointed fingers, and whispers … we still won’t ever know what people actually think. They might look like they’re making fun of us and say we’re crazy, but who knows, on the inside, they might be jealous of our free spirits. They might even want to join in on the hunt. But they’re just too afraid of looking silly.
My mom pulls back her bow and fires an arrow. It hits a box of blueberry breakfast bars. “Eya!” she shouts as it drops off the shelf and lands in her hand. “Go, feed your spirit,” she says to me. “And get something for your little ma’iingan,” she says.
“Ma’iingan is ‘dog’?” I ask.
“No, I think it means ‘wolf.’ Or is makwa wolf? No. That’s bear. I think. Ugh. It’s all a blur. I’ll check my notebook later,” she says.
“I will take my wolf. We will bring back food or die trying,” I say in Brojibwe.
“Okay. Just don’t die, and be careful,” she insists.
Armed with my bow and arrow and Ani, my wolf, I walk off toward the other aisles. There are so many colors in all directions. Shelves and shelves of food. I can’t believe some people get to go to these places whenever they want and get whatever they want. Over time, do those people start to find supermarkets a pain in the butt to go to? I would never. It would take me an entire lifetime to try every single item of food in a place this huge. But it would be so fun trying. I bet I’d like everything. Everything except sour cream. That just sounds gross to me. Sour Patch Kids, yes. Sourdough bread, sure. But sour cream? Yuck. The only two creams I’m cool with are ice cream and whipped cream. Oh! Ice cream. We should totally get some!
I enter an aisle and fire an arrow at the peanut butter. Then at the jelly. Both kill shots.
Okay, so we had to put a few things back. The total went over seventy-five. But we kept most of everything I wanted. We’ll get ice cream next time. I asked Mom why she doesn’t use some of the money in her purse for the remaining groceries, but she said she needs to keep it for gas and for our quick surprise stop. Quick surprise stops mean I’m about to get a present. I love presents. My last present was a skateboard. Mom got tired of seeing me watch all the other kids at the shelter skateboarding in the parking lot. She surprised me at Kmart. I got a brand-new Variflex skateboard. She spent over forty bucks on it. It was the best thing I’ve ever owned. I didn’t even care when I fell and scraped my knees and elbows. But I only had it for a week. Some teenager offered me ten bucks for it. When I said no, he knocked me down, took it, and ran. I chased him for two blocks until I realized that if I caught up to him, I had no idea what I was going to do. He was much bigger than me and would have probably beat me up. So I stopped. I don’t even know why he ran off in the first place. I told Mom I was okay and that we’d one day get another one. I didn’t want her to see me sad because it would make her sad and then I’d be even more sad because she’d be sad, and the sadness would never end. So I told her I was okay. Truth is, I’m still not over it. And more truth is, she got really sad anyway.
We load up the car’s trunk with all five grocery bags and drive back to the laundromat. This time, I get to choose what we listen to. I choose the song “Bad Reputation” by Joan Jett. I love this song. I pick up Ani and we dance to the beat as it blares through the speakers, making the drivers on each side of us take notice. At the red light, Mom milks the attention and becomes Joan Jett, using my hand as her microphone.
Live in concert. In Modesto, California. Performing from the front seat of a red Pinto. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, and dogs, I give you the one and only … JOAN JETT!!!!
She must have sold it well, because no one rolled their windows up or turned their heads away. They were all entertained.
They even sang along and bobbed their heads at us like happy pigeons. I bet we could have pulled over and sold another couple of songs and made some money. And I also bet Mom was thinking that exact same thing. But our night is full. And our bellies are empty. So all her fans are going to have to wait until her next free show.
We load the dryers with all the wet clean clothes. We have another hour to kill before it’s all ready to be folded and put back in the car. We try not to leave our clothes at a laundromat while they dry. Someone could easily walk in, fill a basket with all our clean clothes, and leave. And it’s happened to us before, but Mom wants to make the surprise stop and says we’ll be back before the cycle is complete.
We get back into the car and drive down the street. There is a row of shops on our right side. One’s a barbershop. Is that my surprise? I do need a haircut, but paying for one is a waste of money. They charge, like, fifteen bucks to cut hair. Scissors are only about two bucks. That’s why Mom cuts my hair whenever I need it. There’s also a thrift store, but I doubt that’s my surprise. Our clothes are being washed, and we don’t have much more room left in our car for extra clothes. Then I see it. I smile. I hold my breath. I hope this place is my surprise. My ten toes hope this place is my surprise. Both my feet hope it too … Those yellow letters. Those two orange balls replacing the o’s. This is the best store in the world … Payless ShoeSource.