Bad Indians: A Tribal Memoir

pair of socks in Southern California?) “World’s goin’
ta hell these days.”
Yeah, Coyote figured maybe he’d take a road trip
to see his brother in the drier climes of New Mexico,
where it might be colder but at least a guy could
stand outside for a smoke without wearing a plastic
garbage bag. Seemed like his sweet crazy woman
wasn’t so sweet anymore. Maybe more crazy than
sweet, eh? Why else would she move her van while
he was out cruising—er, walking, the beach? He’d
come back from a little hot chocolate sipping under
the pier to find his rickety suitcase teetering, lonely
and frayed, in an empty parking space.
“Gah!” Coyote surveyed his wardrobe of obscene
T-shirts and gangsta pants scattered amongst the
scraggly pigeons and seagulls and grabbed a few
handfuls. Time was, he wouldn’t be caught dead with
baggage, but the economy wasn’t what it used to be.
He tucked the soggy mess into the rickety rolling
suitcase that served as pack mule and safety deposit
box, shook the sand out of his fur, hitched up his
lowriding green canvas pants, and slouched up the
hill to catch a #1 Santa Monica Big Blue Bus to
Westwood. From there he could catch a shuttle to
LAX, where he had relatives who worked in baggage.