Call Me E.

Call Me E.
all stories and essays by Sean Rein

Bob

My attorney gave me permission to talk about Bob.

Bob is a big dumb Native American I know that hangs out in front of my second-favorite liquor store.

My favorite liquor store is now constantly cased by Russian immigrant men dressed in bad track suits. They must be Russian mob guys because they don't even try to hide the small .25 caliber pistols shoved into the waist bands of their pants.

This isn't a Russian mob piece however. This is about Bob. Bob Proudeagle is what he tells everyone is his name, but I know his real name is Bob Abequa. Abequa is the Ojibway word for "stays at home." Which is funny because the only home he has is a trashed-out 1973 Plymouth Fury.

Bob always talked big when he was holding court in front of the liquor store with all of the other neighborhood bums. His favorite story was how he was part of the 1969 Alcatraz Indian Occupation.

"I was there for the duration," he would say. "November of 1969 till the feds raided us in June, 1971."

This is complete bullshit because he also claims that he didn't leave the Red Lake Indian Reservation until he was a man. By the swelling of Bob's liver, I wouldn't put him over 40 years old. There is no way that Old Bob was 5 years old and attending college in 1969.

On this particular day, Bob was drinking a forty-ounce bottle of Old English 800 and showing off his new possession.

"What you got there, Bob?" I asked.

"It's my war club."

It looked like a busted-off stick that they sell to tourists in Ireland.

"It looks like a shillelagh to me," I said.

I didn't even blink before the cudgel came down hard on my head.

When I woke up, my shoes were gone and the Korean liquor store owner was poking me with a broom handle. Ping told me that Bob got my Converse All Stars before he could chase him off with his broom.

I had a knot on my head for two weeks. I swore revenge.

I laid low for a month or two and let Bob think that I wasn't mad. I even gave him a smoke and told him it was a peace offering. I lit my Zippo with my right hand and reached for my stun gun with my left. The dumb fucker never saw it coming and fell like a ton of bricks.

Ping helped me lift Bob into the back seat of my Jeep and I tore out of there. I was heading for the corn fields of Iowa. Every time it looked like Bob was waking up, I hit him again with 750,000 volts of electrical goodness.

When I found a nice field in the middle of nowhere, I dumped my Indian on the ground and gave him one more jolt for good measure. After that, I took my shoes off of his horrible feet. My shoes now smelt like French cheese and I'd never wear them again. Neither would Bob.

My parting shot was the words "Pig Fucker" written in black Sharpie ink on his forehead and then I headed for home.

When it comes to counting coup, I play for keeps.