Coyote blue

when they get right to the edge of panic 'cause they can't see it, I tell them about the Miracle.
    "Suddenly a clean rug is all that stands between them and all they could ever be. I take out my machine, and I vacuum up their beds into a little black bag. Then I have them boil that bag on the stove until the whole house smells like a sun-ripe battlefield. You see, all that dead skin that falls off you in your sleep is in the mattress; when you boil it the smell is disgusting. There is filth in these folks' houses. How the hell you gonna be beautiful and successful with filth all around? You can't. Filth is the problem and the Miracle is the solution. Now they want it.
    "So we talk some more and I make like I'm gonna leave, but they want the machine. I understand that, but they already got a vacuum cleaner. They don't need my machine. I guess a little filth never hurt no one. But they do need it, they say. They need it. And why do they need it? Because now it's all they got standing between them and their dream. So I write them up. I take their money and I leave them holding that dream in their hand while I drive away. Wants, to needs, to dreams – usually in forty-five minutes or less. Now that's a damn miracle, son."
    "So you trick them," Samson said.
    "They want to be tricked. I just provide a service. It ain't no different than going to the movies or seeing a magician. You don't want to see that the pirates are using rubber swords, do you? You don't want to see the secret pockets up the magician's sleeves, do you? You want to believe in something that you know ain't true, just for a while. People spend a lot of money and time to get tricked. And I get to drive a nice car, stay in good motels, eat in restaurants, and see the country in style."
    Samson thought about that for a while. Driving around in a big, cool, good-smelling car would be almost as good as living on the Ponderosa. Maybe better. Nobody on the reservation drove a car like this, and they hardly ever ate in restaurants, except the burger stand in Crow Agency. Maybe tricking people was the way to go. It sure sounded better than baling hay or fixing truck engines.
    "Do you think I could sell miracles?" Samson asked.
    Lloyd laughed. "You got some growing to do first. Besides, it takes a man of character to handle freedom. Do you have character, Samson?"
    "Is that like medicine?"
    "It's better than medicine. You get yourself some character and come see me in a few years. Then we'll see."
    That settled it. Samson was going to get himself some character and sell himself some miracles. He lay back on the seat and closed his eyes. Lloyd started talking again. The words were soft and rhythmic and soon Samson Hunts Alone, full of Coca-Cola and miracles, fell asleep.
    ~* * *~
    "Samson, wake up."
    Someone was shaking his shoulders. He opened his eyes and saw Pokey holding him at arm's length.
    "What are you doing up here by the road?" Pokey asked.
    "What?" Samson looked around. He was on the ridge where he had sat down before the big blue car had come along. "Where's Lloyd?"
    "Who's Lloyd?" Pokey asked. "I've only been gone a couple of hours. Why did you come up here? Did you have your vision?"
    "No, I went for a ride. I took a ride home with a man who sold Miracles."
    "Samson," Pokey said. "I don't think you took a ride anywhere. I think you better tell me what the man said to you."
    Samson told Pokey about Lloyd Commerce, about the car as long as a house, about selling miracles and tricking people and living the good life. When he was finished Pokey sat staring at the boy for a long time before he spoke. "Samson, you had your vision. I'm sorry."
    "Why are you sorry, Pokey? Because I didn't find my spirit helper?"
    "I wish you saw a squirrel or a flicker, Samson, but you saw a vacuum cleaner salesman," Pokey said forlornly.
    "But he was just a fat white man."
    "He only looked like a white man. I think you saw Old Man Coyote."

Chapter 10 – Over Easy,
    Politically Correct Santa Barbara
    Sam spent most of the night cleaning up the debris from Josh Spagnola's shooting exhibition. Exhausted from the overall strangeness of his day, he went to bed early, but lay awake until well after midnight, first worrying, then trying to understand what was happening to him, and finally fantasizing about the girl. Amid the misery he retained hope, although he could not logically figure out why. She was, after all, just a girl – the goofiest girl he had ever met. Still, the