Nickels’ Town Car speeds north on a two-lane blacktop highway, with a Gofer at the wheel. The land is flat and arid, save for a small river meandering off in the distance. Nonetheless, a large commercial real estate sign has a SOLD banner freshly plastered across it. Nickels, in the back seat with a couple of Gofers, points at the sign and then at his chest: He and his syndicate have already bought some of the land they want.
Up front, riding “shotgun,” is Running Fever. The Town Car is passing five signs on the side of the roadway, a la the old “Burma Shave” signs. They read:
AS YOU ENTER RESERVATION
THINK OF US AS A NATION
NOT JUST OTHER FILLING STATION
OR RELIEF FROM CONSTIPATION
ERMA SHAAVE, MAYOR
Running Fever sinks into his seat. He is embarrassed and humiliated.
“If she was not my sister,” he laments, “I would kill her.”
Everyone laughs.
Nickel’s car approaches the outskirts of this little Indian reservation village, a village sans casino, at least for now. The men pass the village welcoming sign. It reads:
WELCOME TO FORKED KNIFE
Where The Future Gets Here Tomorrow
At the village center the car stops and two Gofers get out and take from the trunk an old-style cone loudspeaker and attach it to the car’s roof. They hand a wired microphone inside to Nickels, then jump back inside. Nickels taps the mic a couple of times to see that it is working, then nods to the driver.
The car slowly rolls through the main street. The loudspeaker begins broadcasting Nickel’s voice. It’s the traditional Indian war chant, slow, deep-voiced and dramatic:
“Ei yei yei yei, Ei yei yei yei... ”
The village residents just go about their business. The chant continues. Finally, Nichol’s voice modulates to a faster “Ricky Ricardo” falsetto finish:
“... Ei yei yei yei yei!!”
At the end of the street, the car turns around.
“This isn’t working,” says Nickels. “What the hell will the people of this village respond to?”
Running Fever has an idea. He asks, “Uh, did you say people of this village?”
Shortly thereafter, the car rolls again. This time music is coming from the loudspeaker. It’s the Village People’s “Y. M.C.A.” Now everyone is paying attention! The villagers begin to follow the car, dancing behind it as it rolls through the dusty main street.
The music fades and Nickels and the Gofers step from the car and walk up onto an elevated sidewalk. Nickels prepares to speak. He motions for silence. The Gofers imitate him, also motioning for silence.
After clearing his throat, Nickels pontificates to the crowd.
“My fellow Native Americans,” he shouts, “I stand before you today as one of you, enriched by the history of our fellow native, uh, history. – You know, America. America before Columbus. – Uh, stuff like that.”
The crowd is puzzled. The Gofers, though, point to Nickels and nod in agreement.
“Now we are engaged in a great civil war. – No, wrong speech. Now we are faced with a time that, even though you don’t yet know it, is to be a turning point... ”
The Gofers, listening intently, turn around and around.
“... a turning point for this very tribe, this very town – this very street of ours.”
Even the Gofers can’t figure out this nonsense. But the villagers listen quietly.
Nickels takes from his jacket a small cloth bag, opens it, and dumps the sand-like contents into his hand. Holding this out, he continues.
“For these, these my friends, my fellow Native Americans, are the very ashes of one of our late beloved ante-decedents – uh, pre-desestors – uh, an-desestors.”
Pause.
“The dead,” he adds drolly.
The vaguely interested crowd strains to see what’s in his hand.
Running Fever comes over to Nickels, shaking his head.
“This isn’t working,” he says, sotto voce. “Just tell them the government may give them more money.”
“The government may give you more money,” Nickels shouts.
The crowd starts to whoop and shout! They give each other high-fives and listen now for more information.
“So,” continues Nickels, “what you need to do is agree to let my associate here, Running Fever, who is the brother of your fine Mayor, Chief-ette Erma Shaave, speak to the government in your name, on your behalf... ”
Nickels waves his arms mightily.
“... and rest ipso locator and all that. Yes, and then, my fellow Native Americans, we, uh, or rather you, will become rich!”
The people talk it over. Soon a spokesman, an Elder, comes out of the crowd and speaks.
“You have our people’s permission. We have known Running Fever since he was just a sickly little boy. And, we trust Erma Shaave. After all, she is not just our Mayor; she is also our town’s marketing director!”
Nickels, Running Fever and even the Gofers flinch at this, recalling the signs. But then they smile and assure the crowd that they have made a wise decision. The entourage departs. The song “We Are Family” blasts from the car’s loudspeaker.
The people boogie in the street.