The Great Communicator
By Chris Dougherty

Foreword
The story that follows is based on a great Chipahoe Indian legend that has been passed down from generation to generation for more than 150 years. This is the first time it has been put to paper and translated into a modern accessible English.

Although every effort has been made to carefully reconstruct the original story certain caveats must be made aware to the reader:

First, all legends begin as factual events, but those events tend to become distorted over time. Each subsequent retelling of the tale is subtly, subconsciously embellished by the raconteur. A brave becomes braver. A chief becomes chiefer. A tragedy deepens and widens and maybe even goes to Coney Island on a hot summer’s day. It is therefore inherently impossible to arrive at a perfectly factual account of The Great Communicator.

Second, in order to keep the flavour and feel of a mystical Indian tale many of the articles, conjunctions, pronouns and even some verbs have been deleted from the text. For example: "Lone Eagle cleans tepees in his spare time in order to supplement his income" is simply translated as "Lone Eagle clean tepee in spare time to supplement income."

Third, the original story which is told from the third person omniscient point of view and in the past tense has been converted into first person, present tense. This is to lend it a more immediate, intimate quality as opposed to some overwrought tale of woe that no one really cares about cause it happened two centuries ago.

Finally, most of the names, places, details and events have been changed in order to make the story more appealing to Hollywood executive types, one of which (with any luck) will purchase the rights somewhere in the mid six figures.

Poignant Quote
"There are a million writers in the naked city and all of them are waiters."
–Me

"Please continue," I encourage him, hoping he will burst into flame.

It’s too early for this shit. Too early to play camp psychiatrist, but Chief insists the fire be ready before sunup in case of an emergency. I jab the coals vehemently and think, I hate my life.

Hundreds of sparks drift and swirl like upward falling snow and disappear into the lightening sky. Morning used to be my favorite time of day; with the Great Plain opening along the horizon and countless teepees silhouetted against the dawn I often found myself overcome with pride. Lately, however, an indefinable malaise has been cast over the community. Actually, I believe it is definable. I’ll call it alcoholism.

With a never-ending supply of booze from the white man we have degenerated into a bunch of feckless sots, eating too much and partying until the wee hours seven days a week. The entire tribe save Running Bear and myself are dead asleep and probably won’t get up until late afternoon. Chief comes up with any excuse to tie a load on. Last night we celebrated the upcoming hunting season. The night before there was a party in honor the spirit god of light breezes. And a few days before that the chief sponsored a major bash that, if I recall correctly, had something to do with nutmeg. He is a very popular chief, but my gut feeling is that he is not the brightest bulb on the plain. If the white man don’t wipe us out with his guns and bullets he’ll certainly do it with his gin and tonics and turn a profit to boot. I don’t even want to think what would happen if we fell under a surprise attack. Half our braves have grown such a mass of flab around there midsection that they began switching to shorter horses because they are easier to mount.

A single flame sprouts like a long blade of grass. Twigs crackle and pop. Running Bear squats down across from me on the other side of the pit, inhales deeply and blows some more spit onto the fire. I see by light of the new flame that he has been crying. His face is clean in and around the eyes and in two or three distinct rivulets that run down each cheek.

"Boo hoo!" I shout at him from across the growing flame. "Boo fuckin’ hoo!" He winces with embarrassment, knowing that I know he has been crying over a woman. Boo hoo indeed.

Once the fire is burning nicely I can take a seat behind my desk and relax a little, maybe even catch a few zzzs before it starts getting busy, but with this idiot bumbling about I am afraid he might take a header right into the pit. Not that I wouldn’t delight in his screams of agony, but everyone would blame me and I’d find myself in some serious shit with the elders.

I audibly clear my throat, even though it don’t need no clearing, take out a request form and number two pencil and slide them across the desk toward Running Bear. With the tactful insincerity of the underpaid bureaucrat that I am, I motion him to take a seat. Running Bear stares at the request form and haltingly walks toward my desk on the last legs of a dying man. He falls heavily into one of the two leather chairs opposite me and releases a belch loud enough to spook a gaggle of morning doves.

He picks up the stapler from my desk, looks at it as if he’s never seen one before then quickly fires a few rounds at my breast plate. Needless to say, I am not amused. I place the full weight of my icy cold stare on his forehead, concentrating on which method I will use to slay him. I clear my throat once again — this time much louder and with arched eyebrows. I have been so busy dealing with these morons lately that half my day is spent eh-hemming, tut-tutting and arching my eyebrows and as a result I have been experiencing terrible migraines. Medicine Man advised that I must stop with such exaggerated dramatics and that if I continue I will get unsightly lines across my forehead and then how would I ever score with a woman. He also added as a side note that constantly eh-hemming and arching ones eyebrows is considered bourgeois in certain circles. Unfortunately, upon hearing this interesting bit of news, I involuntarily arched my eyebrows and he immediately threw me out of his tent, calling me something that sounded like it rhymed with "trucking shiphead". He never did give me a prescription, but I suppose it’s for the best. The only thing his roots and powders ever did for me was throw me into a really bad acid trip during which I was nearly mortally wounded when I tried to milk an angry two-headed woodchuck.

"I’m having problems with Mona," Running Bear mumbles, playing with the potted cactus I won in a raffle. I wrestle the plant from him and place it firmly back down in its designated place. When he reaches for my appointment book I skewer his hand with my moose-horn letter opener.

"Oww!" he screams. "What’d you do that for?"

The goring finally puts to rest his wandering hands as he must concentrate on sucking the blood that is pouring from his hand like a small waterfall. He also seems to have sobered up very quickly.

"Look Running Bear, I don’t have time for you. What do you want?"

Between sucks of blood he first apologizes (as I am still holding the letter opener in a menacing fashion) then manages to tell me that his fiancée of three days, this Mona chick, threw him out of the teepee for the eleventh time since their engagement.

"Do you ever think that maybe you and Mona are not meant for each other?" I ask him, sliding the letter opener back in its sheath..

"She never wants to see me again," he says, applying a tourniquet his wrist.

"I can’t say I blame her. Take a look at yourself." I hold a hand mirror up to his face and he begins to blubber.

"She said, ‘Never. Ever. Ever. Never’… And me? Me so horny!"

"Well, I wouldn’t worry. We are not a very big tribe. You’re bound to run in to her again. Probably even by the end of the day. But besides all that Running Bear I don’t see how this could possibly be of any concern to me?"

"She refuses to speak to me. She is like granite. I thought maybe you could…"

"Yes?" I ask, arching my eyebrows all the way to my receding hairline which starts somewhere at the back of my neck.

"Maybe you could put something romantic in the sky. Romantic, but not too groveling. You know… They say you very good at those things."

"They?" I ask, fishing for a complement. "Whom are they?"

"Women say you melt hearts."

I know what the women say. I overhear things in and around the camp. I get some looks now and then, an occasional smile or wink, but women only want warriors. They don’t care about a guy who sits around a smoky fire all day long, eyes red, stinking of soot. On the whole my great "skills" have gotten me nowhere, and to illustrate this point it should be revealed that, although I have tried very, very hard, at times even begging on my hands and knees, I am still a virgin at the age twenty-three. And given that the average life span of your typical Chipahoe male is only twenty-two, I don’t have a helluva a lot of time left to do the dirty.

Hence, the bitterness.

"You know Running Bear I am not supposed to do personal requests. I only handle the business of the tribe: cultural events, news of the day, obituaries and the like."

This isn’t entirely true. I can do personal requests at my own discretion, but balking is my way of hinting to clients that I wouldn’t mind a little consideration: an ear or two of corn, some trinkets or maybe even a nice Cuban cigar.

Running Bear gets the hint, as they all do, and slides a small leather pouch across the desk. I take a quick peek inside and like what I see. I hand him the pencil and make him complete and sign the form.

"I’ll make things right," I tell him. "Wake Mona when the sun is highest in the sky. Ask her to look east, which is where I am sitting now."

Running Bear stands and bows gravely. I wave him off with an air of dismissal I copied from Pontiff Exodus VII.

"Thank you Great Communicator," he says, saying Great Communicator with a touch of condescension that really irks me. Every time I deal with a warrior it’s always sarcasm. They get what they want then they mock me. "Hey, everybody! Look who it is! It’s the Great Communicator!"

"By the way, Running Bear, there are no refunds. I am not responsible for bad weather; fog, rain, wind, etceteras..."